


Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Invisible Prism

by CCNSurvivor



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blackmail, F/M, Guilt, M/M, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Pride, Shame, case-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-05-03 00:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 56,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14556819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNSurvivor/pseuds/CCNSurvivor
Summary: In the year 1895, however, it so happened that Holmes and I became involved in not one but two cases of blackmail; the latter of which has never been spoken of since, for it was fraught with a danger which threatened the illusion of normalcy we had so desperately carved out of the ruins of our relationship since his return from the Reichenbach Falls a year prior. And yet it was of that case I often found myself thinking, as it carried some personal significance to both Holmes and myself and drastically changed our lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- I set off to write this story 10 months ago and although it isn't quite finished yet, I feel it's at least in a decent place to  
> be shared with you. It is fully planned out and I'm working on the final chapter right now, so rest assured it will be  
> finished. I have done as much research as I possibly could given other things going on in my life, and I hope it  
> comes across. Kudos/comments and words of encouragement would be GREATLY appreciated. As would constructive  
> criticism, especially regarding any blatant, painful historical inaccuracies.  
> \- updates will come, albeit slowly, as I take my time finishing this up and also to give my incredible beta the time to edit  
> and tweak :)  
> \- which brings me to some necessary words of thanks:  
> to my wife, for endless hours of brainstorming, for putting up with my struggles when Watson failed to cooperate, for  
> encouraging me to write through all my insecurities, for encouraging me that I could write this from Watson's POV  
> although I'm much closer in personality to Holmes. For creating Hugo with me long, long, long before this idea came  
> about 
> 
> to wildishmazz and your comments on the initial chapters
> 
> and lastly to nibbles - the best, most honest and kindest beta I could have hoped for. Thanks for sticking with me  
> through this in what turned out to be a bigger project than I'd imagined. For always shaping and improving and altering  
> my writing while bearing my voice and my style in mind. And for giving John Watson his heart. :)
> 
> \- finally. Prism was influenced by ACD canon and, as always when it comes to me, the Granada Holmes series. So you  
> might find some references shaped by Granada a bit more than canon.
> 
> \- oh and Hugo just likes purple ;) in regards to the carnation.

Prologue:

 

I have on more than one occasion alluded to those cases which my friend Sherlock Holmes forbade me to commit to paper. These decisions were usually communicated with some vehemence on the grounds of protecting the privacy of those involved, for he was himself an impeccably private man. In the years of our acquaintance I have not once gone against his word; though I have, on occasion, challenged him when moved by the conviction that a story must be told, and might be told while withholding those details that would have brought shame upon those parties involved.

In the year 1895, however, it so happened that Holmes and I became involved in not one but two cases of blackmail; the latter of which has never been spoken of since, for it was fraught with a danger which threatened the illusion of normalcy we had so desperately carved out of the ruins of our relationship since his return from the Reichenbach Falls a year prior. And yet it was of that case I often found myself thinking, as it carried some personal significance to both Holmes and myself and drastically changed our lives.

Our brush with Charles Augustus Milverton had shown me how much my friend detested this particular specimen of criminal, and although it wasn’t uncommon that he would exhaust himself in his efforts for justice, I had never before been privy to so swift a descent into his black moods. For months the darkness was upon him, tormenting him with periods of lethargy and fits of fearful restlessness. Upon observing him, it seemed to me that some inexplicable intuition had warned him that some dreadful event was about to occur.

When not tending to those poor souls at the free wards – where even so concerns for his well-being continued to plague me – I tried to coax him out of our rooms in Baker Street and into the brisk autumn air in the hope that that would, at the very least, be of some benefit to his fragile constitution. At times he agreed, though if only to appease me, as the easy-flowing conversation and indeed even the companionable silence were markedly absent from our rambles.

He ate but a few morsels of food and more than once did I observe his gaze wandering longingly to the cocaine bottle he thought hidden away from me in his morocco case. I held to the notion that he possessed enough strength to refrain; for whenever my eye strayed to his arms they were smooth and untouched, displaying none of the distressing puncture wounds for which victims of this vice were known.

He carried on in this miserable fashion until I accepted with some regret that I was powerless to alter his mood. All that was in my power to do was grant him privacy when he needed it; and company when so desired.

 

* * *

 

It was on a bleak, muddy Thursday evening - the ending to an equally miserable day - that I was attempting to unwind with a book by the fireside when Holmes, who had been sitting opposite me, startled out of his rigid position and moved to resume his vigil by the window. A strange habit he had begun to adopt a week or so ago.

He stood there for quite some time, perfectly still except for an odd momentum that pushed him forward onto the balls of his feet like an oversized bird of prey waiting to strike. One arm was firmly clasped behind his back while the hand of the other was tensely clutching the windowsill, exposing cramped, long fingers that were of a ghostly pale colour in the faint light of a nearby streetlamp.

By this time, I was quite accustomed to these spurts of nervousness that would overcome him, and although the haunted look in his eyes pained me, I lowered my gaze to my book once more, and tried to find the passage which I had just abandoned.

If I were to ask what was troubling him, he was likely to ignore me; I did not dare disturb the peace that had become so fragile since his return to London. So I left him to his unexplained surveillance until his sharp intake of breath, followed by a rap on the door downstairs demanded my attention once more. It seemed he had, indeed, foreseen someone’s arrival.

I had barely the time to set my book aside before Mrs. Hudson called out to us from the stairs and then proceeded to usher in a most striking looking gentleman. Under normal circumstances she would have grumbled at the lateness of the hour and departed with a stern reminder to keep our voices to a minimum so that we wouldn’t disturb her further. But on this day her demeanour was bright and open, almost sweet, and undoubtedly due to her own concern for Holmes’s well-being.

If this gentleman proved to be a client then there was the promise of a case, and a case hardly ever failed to rouse the spirits of my friend.

Prepared to abandon my book for the evening, I rose to my feet and extended a hand to the gentleman who had remained standing by the door which served as a barrier between us and the dangers of the outside world.

Our visitor was of a greater height than me, though not taller than Holmes, with a dark complexion and even darker lashes that fanned out luxuriously over a pair of evenly shaped brown eyes. He carried himself with grace that befitted his slender figure and looked at Holmes expectantly despite accepting my hand. It seemed to me that a silent conversation passed between them of which I was unable to understand a jot, except to say that the stranger in our living room was posing a question for which the answer clearly required some deliberation on Holmes’s part.

“Perhaps you would like to take a seat?” spoke he at long last, the greater part of his body still turned towards the window.

“If you are certain that I have not come at an inopportune moment?”

I found that I, too, had been gripped by an anticipation which had thickened the atmosphere in the room since the gentleman’s arrival, and felt an inexplicable sense of relief, of catharsis, at hearing him speak. His voice was peculiar but devoid of the negative connotations that usually accompany the word; it was melodious and pleasant to the ear, with just the faintest hint of an accent that betrayed his origin of India or Afghanistan.

I had witnessed London becoming a fixed point upon which the axes of colonialisation and trade met and crossed, and yet it had been some time since I had seen someone of his particular origin as impeccably dressed as he. 

“Depending on its nature, any visit can be deemed inopportune. So I ask you again to take a seat.”

I was startled by the sharpness of my friend’s tone and reached out to guide our guest to the sofa onto which he sank at his leisure, crossing one long leg over the other. If he took offense at how he had been spoken to, he certainly did not show it. In fact, his handsome face was brightened by an almost complacent smile.

“Mr. Holmes, I have heard that you hate to waste time, so I will get to the crux of the matter as soon as you humour me in one more query.”

“By all means,” granted my friend who at last abandoned his post by the window and stalked across the room to take his usual seat in the armchair opposite me. His pinched lips told me that he was still put out by the sudden appearance of our visitor, though why, I could not say.

“The matter which I am about to relate to you is, as you must know, rather delicate. May I speak freely without fear of consequence even in front of your associate?”

I must admit that this took me by surprise, as I had shown nothing but courtesy and kindness to him. What, I wondered, had I done to evoke such suspicion? My friend, on the other hand, did not look startled in the least and arranged himself in his armchair until he was comfortable.

“Dr. Watson is a gentleman in every possible way. Whatever you have to say, you can freely say in front of him and be assured that he will not betray your confidence. So, pray, proceed and furnish us with the details of your problem. You are a busy man and likely in need of rest after a tiring evening at the University.”

By now I was quite accustomed to Holmes’s keen observations and his desire to make them known as swiftly as possible. They were, to me, akin to a street hawker crying his wares in a particular fashion so that he may be remembered above all others.

And, of course, it pleased Holmes to astonish his audience. Many was the time that he had flushed with delight at my praise of his extraordinary talent.

Our visitor, on the other hand, appeared little more than mildly amused.

“My dear, the descriptions do you justice. You are exactly like a peacock, strutting and showing off your tail feathers.”

His deep brown eyes washed over my friend in delight and it wasn’t long before he tipped his head back and let out a gleeful chuckle. But when his remark drew no reaction from Holmes or myself, he quickly sobered and continued to speak.

“Indeed you are right, Mr Holmes. I am a professor of mathematics at King’s College. Perhaps there is some mud upon my boots which has told you something about the distance travelled. Or perhaps it is much simpler; perhaps it is just some residue of chalk left upon my fingers.”

The mischievous glint in his eyes had not vanished and I was beginning to see that he enjoyed an audience just as much as my friend did and that – if not stopped -- they were running the risk of primping and preening until one of them succeeded in garnering the greatest attention.

“At any rate, my occupation has little to do with my motivation to seek you out. But the papers have painted such a marvellous picture of your skills and successes that I am inclined to think you are the only man in London who can help me.”

Words like these had oftentimes been directed at Holmes, and yet I couldn’t help but feel that another silent exchange was taking place between the two men.

In an effort to understand, I scooted closer to the edge of my seat, watching my friend carefully. Apart from the tension in his shoulders, however, there was little else to observe. By now he was reclining languidly in his chair once more, the tips of his slender fingers pressed together, his eyes half shut as if deep in thought.

“Perhaps you could begin by offering your name, Sir,” I ventured when the silence in the room extended and neither party seemed likely to break it.

“Hugo Laghari,” came the reply, albeit with some delay, as if my suggestion and indeed my presence came as a shock to him.

I am not ashamed to admit that I felt rather slighted by his response. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence that clients sought to exclude me from their interviews with Holmes, and who could fault them? It took great courage and not some little desperation to come to Baker Street in the first place to present an oftentimes intimately personal problem to a stranger whose brusqueness was well known.

It was an entirely different matter to be forgotten about, however, and I felt myself flush with envy at the puzzling connection in front of me.

“You have told us now repeatedly what you aren’t here for. Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain what does bring you here.”

He must have heard the impatience in my tone, for he chuckled in delight and rubbed his dark hands together.

“Well, Dr. Watson, you are clearly eager to hear more so I shan’t make you wait any longer. The facts are these. I frequent a certain gentleman’s club, the precise details of which I need not reveal just now. I am a familiar face to many there. It is a place of a somewhat Bohemian nature, where members seek and find great joy and freedom and, perhaps, occasional drama which the staff are well equipped to contain. So, you see, it is rare to find someone who isn’t enjoying himself, and yet that’s what I encountered several times in the past week.”

He paused to collect his thoughts, or perhaps to see if we were following his narrative.  

“The man’s name is Adrian Wright. He is a nobody where London’s society is concerned, but I’ve always known him to be a kind and upright gentleman. He would happily engage with most chaps in the establishment, if only on a superficial level; and so I couldn’t quite believe my eyes when I saw that he had isolated himself and proceeded to do so time and time again that week. Eventually my curiosity got the better of me and I joined him even though he had the looks of a fellow who’d rather be left alone.

“’What’s the matter, dear?’” I asked him but the poor soul could hardly produce a word.

“Naturally, I tried to soothe him to the best of my abilities, but even with all my charm in effect, I could only bring him to splutter about danger and blackmail.”

Curiously, I observed Holmes sitting up straighter, as if the mention of blackmail alone was enough to make him tense. Charles Augustus Milverton may have been dead, but his legacy seemed potent enough to infest the memories of those unfortunate souls who had come in contact with him.

“Now neither instance is a novelty for the likes of us, but poor Adrian was so shaken by it all that I fear he might be inclined to do something foolish.”

“You think he may attempt to take his own life?” I inquired carefully.

The dreadful consequences of the master blackmailer’s evil deeds were fresh in _my_ mind also.

“Oh far worse than that, Dr. Watson. I fear he might do something that could endanger even more lives.”

“So what exactly is it that you wish me to do, Mr. Laghari?” asked my friend at last with a voice as grave as the mood that had descended upon the room. “It does not seem to me that Mr. Wright asked for anyone to interfere with his predicament.”

“But I’m asking you.” There was a keen sharpness to the eyes that had previously been filled with mirth. “Because you have a grasp of the far-reaching consequences, Mr. Holmes. Because you know how many lives could be destroyed and I don’t believe for a moment that your conscience would allow you to stand by and do nothing.”

A jolt of energy seemed to pass through my friend who leapt to his feet, fetching his pipe from the mantelpiece. He lit it with a glowing cinder and at once began to pace the length of the room, sucking violently at the stem as he went.

The anger behind the gesture could not have been lost on our visitor, but he remained patiently seated, observing Holmes with mild interest.

Smoke billowed up in dense clouds from the gaping mouth of the pipe, shrouding the room in grey mist while my friend’s boots beat a firm staccato onto the carpeted floor.

“I am a busy man, Mr. Laghari,” spoke Holmes in the end, “and I am engaged in a few more little problems at present.” His footsteps halted and with a flourish he turned to face our visitor once more. “But I will give your conundrum some thought and contact you in due course regarding my decision.”

A look of mixed emotions washed across our visitor’s face before he rose to his feet and offered a hand to Holmes.

“Time is against us,” he urged softly when my friend reciprocated the gesture. “I hope you’ll make the right decision.”

Sensing the end of the conversation, I also stood to guide Mr. Laghari downstairs and to the front door, knowing that Holmes’s hospitality rarely extended beyond the threshold.

As we descended the staircase, Hugo Lagahari remained silent and polite and I noticed myself breathing a sigh of relief. There was no logical basis to my reaction and I could not formulate, even to myself, what I feared he might ask me. Yet I felt instinctively in awe of his confidence. He did not possess the physique that might commonly be associated with masculine beauty, but he carried himself with such purpose and conviction that it was difficult to look away.

Holmes had retreated to the window once more by the time I set foot into our living room again. The gas lamps had been turned down and even the embers in the fireplace were slowly dying.

“Holmes?” I called out to him carefully. The shadows that stretched across the ceiling were so daunting and the mood so peculiar that I was hesitant to approach him. “What an odd fellow, wouldn’t you say? What do you make of him and his problem?”

But Holmes remained silent, staring out into the gloomy London night while the pipe went cold in his hand. The expression upon his face was one of deepest thought and concentration, and when he spoke at last his voice appeared to unfurl from sound slumber.

“What did you observe about the man, Watson? Describe him to me.”

Reclaiming my seat in the armchair I considered this question, which he had presented to me many a time before, and thought nothing out of the ordinary about it.

 “An unusual gentleman in many ways. His well-kept fingernails and impeccable suit would suggest that he is concerned about his appearance. His shoes have recently been polished although the dreadful London weather has been successful at destroying most of his efforts. He told us himself that he has a stable position at a University, and for that he must be very bright, which his eyes also suggest. Was there more of importance? Yes, I know that look, Holmes, there must have been more. But it’s getting late and I’m tired, so perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what I’ve missed that’s left such an impression on you.”

He thrust his hands into his pockets and emitted a heavy rumble while his chin sank upon his chest. I hadn’t seen him quite so preoccupied since that gloomy evening in April four years ago when he had presented himself in my consulting room and asked me to escape to the continent with him.

This sudden realisation struck such fear into my heart that I was quite paralysed for a moment. Surely this case could not pose as big of a threat as the late Professor Moriarty?

“What of the flower in his buttonhole?”

“A purple carnation?” replied I, frowning at his perplexing question. “A touch flamboyant, perhaps. But I do not see what more there could possibly be to that.”

The look I received in return was one of such grief and anguish that I was unable to meet his eyes for long. The struggle that was clearly raging inside him was rendering him speechless and I, in turn, found myself powerless to help him.

It wasn’t the first time since his return to London that I found myself cut off from him by an endless gulf of conflicting emotions. The waters of the Reichenbach Falls ran deep and their strength was potent enough to drown us still.

Everything was quiet and dark, and in the darkness I wondered if I would ever find my way to his side again.

“The establishment our visitor was talking about is for inverts and pederasts, Watson.” With what agony that sentence emerged at last. What willpower it seemed to cost him. “So perhaps you can understand the delicacies and dangers that go hand in hand with this particular case. You are flushing even now, Watson, you cannot bear to look at me. Don’t be frightened, I do not blame you. The current political climate hardly leaves room for anything but shame and discomfort. So all I will ask of you is to consider your decision carefully, as I will mine. The implications are grave, indeed, should our involvement be misconstrued. I haven’t exactly been following social conventions and evidence against me could condemn you also.”

“Holmes?” I asked helplessly, wishing he would speak plainly at last, but he only turned back towards the window and bade me to go to bed in a tone that was brittle with exhaustion.


	2. Chapter 2

If Holmes expected me to make up my mind and succumb to sleep easily that night, he erred terribly. Indeed, I had been thrust into such a state of puzzlement that even as I bade him goodnight and climbed the stairs to my room, I knew that I was unlikely to find rest. Clear thoughts would not present themselves to me and so I initially occupied myself with those tasks that are familiar and habitual to most men.

I placed the book I had been reading on my nightstand, drew back the covers of my bed and opened the window to let the damp, frigid night air into the room. Then I proceeded into the adjacent bathroom where I washed and undressed and changed into my nightshirt. A faint note of carbolic acid stubbornly clung to my skin – a by-product from my work at the wards – and I wondered fleetingly whether Holmes’s perception had extended so far as to take note of it.

My God, Holmes!

I sank down onto the mattress from legs that shook dangerously, as if the weight of my body had become too much for them to bear.

How much had his keen eyes observed? How much had he discovered in the years of our acquaintance?

My torso sagged forward so that my arms embraced the cool perspiration of my brow. My heart thudded heavily against my ribcage. I had witnessed the decline of far too many men into pitiful states like this. Shock paralysed the body and turned the brain into a sluggish, useless organ. It was with difficulty that I urged myself to think and breathe, and to reflect on Holmes’s exact words.

_The establishment our visitor was talking about is for inverts and pederasts. The current political climate hardly leaves room for anything but shame and discomfort._

How dreadfully impossible it was to examine his words through the cool lens of reason when distaste and revulsion had been so prominent in his tone! The stranger, too, he’d been eyeing with visible discomfort. This I had attributed to the taut state of his nerves but upon re-examination I was no longer certain.

The cold night air which I had allowed to seep through the window was tickling the back of my neck unpleasantly, but doing little to soothe the wall of heat the panic had stirred up within me.

And what of his instruction then to describe the stranger? How many times before had I heard him pose that very question? Yet now I doubted, wondered if he had been testing me and my knowledge of that which was deemed deviant in our society. Had he discovered what lay slumbering inside me?

I had been so desperately careful not to let him see those desires, those feelings I had first encountered on the lonely, frightening nights in Afghanistan. The warmth and comfort of another man’s embrace, the salt of their skin, the push and pull of their bodies as agreeable to me as my wife’s had been in years to come.

But perhaps I’d merely been fooling myself, believing that I could hide my true nature from the sharpest man in London.

With shaking hands, I lay myself down on the bed, releasing a sigh when my back at last rested against the mattress. From this position, the outside world was nothing more than a blur of oranges and blacks, and for one brief second I wanted it to stay precisely like that. How I wished Hugo Laghari had never set foot into the house. How I wished I had never invited him to speak. But it was too late now to cry and moan and pity myself; Holmes would expect an answer in the morning, and what could I say without revealing even more?

* * *

As I had predicted, the night that followed was an uneasy one, my fitful sleep punctuated by vivid nightmares and frighteningly plausible visions of the future. The wind howled and rattled at the open window while I forced my eyes shut and my thoughts away from the guilt that so easily infested the souls of my kind.

But morning still came with cruel speed, paying no heed to the predicament I found myself in. For quite some time I remained in bed, listening as the city awakened around me. The clatter of hooves and squeaking of wheels resounded with growing frequency while voices swelled outside, fighting one another, overlapping, creating a cacophony of sound until there was no doubt that Baker Street had cast aside the mantle of night for good. Another day, and Holmes and I plunged into yet another adventure.

I rose, fully aware of the weariness in my bones, and washed and dressed with less care than usual. No superficial appearance, no matter how carefully tended to, would hide from my friend the lack of sleep I had suffered.

Upon entering the living room, I found that Holmes had already seated himself at the table, apparently disinterested in the breakfast that had been assembled before him. Indeed, he seemed much more focused on the newspaper which hid half of his face from me.

“Good morning, old fellow,” I greeted him with a cheerfulness I did not feel and pulled back a chair to join him at the table.

“Good morning, Watson,” he echoed, making no haste to discard the paper that stood as a barrier between us.

Was he reluctant to see me, or had there been some development that had captured his attention?

“Anything stirring?” I therefore asked next, reaching out for eggs which I had no desire to eat.

Holmes, himself, had neglected to remove the cloche from his own meal; only his teacup showed signs of use.

“Undoubtedly,” he muttered gruffly, tossing the paper aside with a flourish, “but that is only of interest if we decide to reject Mr. Laghari’s plea for assistance.”

Dark rings under his eyes stood in stark contrast to the pallor of his skin; and his long, nervous hands had trouble settling in one spot alone. He had washed and shaved – his hair was slick, his cheeks smooth – but had not considered it worthwhile to put on more than his mouse-coloured dressing gown which he wore over his usual white nightshirt.

Had he, then, passed a similarly restless night to my own?

Still, the question hung in the air unspoken and his grey eyes found mine with such intensity that I jumped to my feet and crossed the room to hurriedly close the door. Mrs. Hudson was likely to leave us alone, particularly when Holmes was so obviously in a disputatious mood, and yet I fretted lest any word regarding our eccentric visitor might somehow seep outside.

Holmes easily took note of my nervous behaviour; that much was apparent by the peculiar way his strong, dark eyebrows knitted together when I turned to face him once more, but he did not comment. I averted my eyes again and returned to my seat, lifting up a knife to break open the hard-boiled egg. The shell crackled noisily under the pressure of the serrated teeth, revealing the white interior and beyond the soft, gooey yellow of the yolk. The image, combined with the distinctive smell was making me shudder and I quickly abandoned further attempts at eating. When I glanced up, Holmes’s eyes were still unnervingly focused on me.

“You are awaiting an answer,” I said needlessly, steadying my hands against the edge of the table. “Though why you are so intent on hearing me speak first, I do not understand.”

The sleep deprivation was causing my temper to rise to the surface and if treated to further mysterious silences, Holmes was likely to make its acquaintance.

“All the details were laid out yesterday,” answered he calmly, “all the risks and dangers. I have been expecting a case like this since ’85, Watson. I have been lying in wait, preparing as much as a fellow could prepare for the despicable deeds to emerge. The Amendment condemned a number of already vulnerable men to grimmer fates still and handed power to those who thrive on the misfortune and shame of others.”

The Labouchere Amendment, which had come into existence four years into my tenancy at Baker Street, had caused ripples through a community from which I had distanced myself after my first tentative steps in London. Which was not to say, sadly, that it had left me unaffected. Holmes, on the other hand, had never made so much as a comment; and fearing rejection or, at the very least, to rouse his suspicion, I had remained silent also. Perhaps I ought to have been grateful to hear him now speak so plainly and passionately on the matter; yet I felt little more than a sinking feeling of disappointment in the pit of my stomach.

With his exciting tale about _baritsu_ and an epic struggle at the edge of the Reichenbach Falls, not to mention the honest regret in his voice, he had easily won my forgiveness that fateful day when he had returned to my practice in the disguise of a bookseller. The relief at seeing him alive and well, the promise of future adventures and shared moments had eclipsed the darker feelings which had gradually suffused our lives like venom of the snakes he so loathed.

Reason could follow the cold calculations he had been forced to undertake in a split-second in Switzerland. Reason could even remind me of the warmth and affection I had found in his letter. But the heart? Oh, the heart had a mind of its own. Certain aches were impossible to soothe, the flood of nightmares impossible to stem, no matter how often I awoke to his cool hand upon my brow.

And doubt was the most fatal of all.

I cannot say how soon after his return I began to question the truthfulness of his words, how quickly the complete confidence I’d always had in him dissipated into nervous suspicion. Quiet questions began to take root, eating me up from the inside, because I did not dare ask him for fear of losing him again. And so I came to wonder how many more secrets he had kept from me in the past. How long had he known about Professor Moriarty? About Charles Augustus Milverton? And this new invisible threat? He had been lying in wait, he said; and yet he had never mentioned it to me.

“Well then, Watson? Are you prepared?”

I was startled to find him standing by the window once more. He appeared to me a prisoner of his own circumstances; yearning for the world that drifted by outside our window, yet bound by the knowledge of those despicable deeds mankind was capable of. I pitied him then, helpless as he seemed and rose to my feet to bridge the gap that had opened up between us.

“Of course, Holmes, of course! Don’t look away now, that is not like you; or do you truly fear my words so much?”

“Not your words, my dear Watson, but your opinion, for I know how badly I have abused your trust and how my esteem must have lessened in your eyes.”

I could not contradict, I could not argue. I was powerless under his grey gaze, forced to helplessly stare at him while that great gift of observation of his, that magnificent tool that had righted so many wrongs, turned against its own master and revealed to him all that I had been trying to hide.

“I will not falter, Holmes. Believe that to be true. I will follow you, and you have my word that I do so out of firm conviction and deep fondness for you, my best, my most loyal friend. If there is danger to be found in this case then my place is at your side, for as I told you upon your return, I will never again permit you to place your life at peril unless I am there with you.”

I had moved him with my speech, which had been as impulsive as it had been careless. If I had wished to hide from him my true nature, perhaps I ought to have chosen less revealing words. But I did not need to fret, for it became quickly apparent that Holmes was much too prone, too helpless in the face of such true affection to dissect my statement in search of deeper meaning. As I have mentioned before, his susceptibility to flattery was not new to me; nor was I indifferent to the knowledge that Holmes possessed a kinder heart than he oftentimes displayed; but not once before had I witnessed him to be quite so paralysed by emotion as he was in that moment.

His eyes were wide and awed, containing a frailty and incredulity one usually encountered in those of children. His lips no longer formed a firm, thin line but were slightly parted to allow the air to depart his mouth when words could not. Even his eyebrows refused to submit to his ordinarily iron will. They were drawn once or twice into the most elegant arches of disbelief or deepest valleys of melancholy, making me suddenly feel like an intruder to what was clearly a most intimate moment.

“There we are, old fellow,” I perhaps spoke with more gruffness than intended, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “It has all been decided, so there is no use standing around any longer. Where do we begin?”

At long last, life seemed to return into my friend’s body and with the usual dramatic flourish his hands flew up in the air.

“Your pocket, my dear fellow. Naturally your pocket!” he cried and I was at once confounded and amused.

“Truly, Holmes, that is not what I was expecting you to say.”

Undeterred by my laughter, my friend proceeded to bound through the room, snatching up discarded papers and brushing ash off furniture in a newly found burst of energy.

“Did you not?” he asked eventually, his expressive eyebrows drawing together in the most humorous display of puzzlement. “And yet it was so utterly plain. Surely you must have noticed how Mr. Laghari slipped his card into your trouser pocket as you were descending the stairs?”

Instinctively, I reached backwards to feel for evidence of his suggestion but, of course, I had discarded yesterday’s trousers in my room and so my fingers returned fruitlessly from their search. Still, I felt rather foolish for my oversight, and also compelled to argue my case.

“Why would he slip his card into my pocket? Why not give it to me, or to you, for that matter? It is you he came to see.”

Holmes chuckled to himself and plucked at a string of his violin, which he had retrieved from its precarious place just underneath the sofa.

“Because Mr. Laghari,” he proceeded to explain while he placed the instrument back in its case, “like many of his kind, has developed an excellent eye for detail, especially for those pertaining to moods and attitudes. It will not have taken him long to ascertain that you were much more favourably inclined towards him than I.”

I felt nettled by his remark and doubly so, for he was not only reminding me of my ignorance but also, I feared in my  sleep addled state, suggesting our client had recognised something within me that ought to have not been there. Panic surged through my veins as I re-visited the dreadful possibility that Holmes had suspected my inclination towards both sexes all along and finally found confirmation the past evening when the gentleness I had displayed towards Mr. Laghari had clearly mirrored that behaviour which had previously been reserved for our female clients.

But no, I attempted to calm myself. I feared discovery so much that I was not thinking rationally. Had I not shown the same to Doctor Percy Trevelyan or the unhappy John Hector McFarlane just a year prior? Surely he could not fault me my kindness now!

“No need to look so vexed, Watson,” spoke Holmes after I must have been silent for quite a while. “Mr. Laghari is hardly the first client to have displayed such feat, and he is a determined fellow and not nearly as frightened as he ought to be, so naturally it follows that he will be prepared to fight with all the weaponry at his disposal. For now, however, I have no reason to believe or condemn him, so _in dubio pro reo_ say I, and on with the case!”

And thrusting his hands into the air, he strode off into his bedroom to dress. It was difficult to resist being caught up when Holmes was hot on a scent, for his enigmatic character was so compelling, his animation so palpable it would have taken a heart of steel not to be moved. And so despite my reservations, I found myself scaling the stairs to my own room once more in search of the card that had been slipped into my pocket.

My trousers were neatly folded over the back of my chair so that a simple flick of fabric instantly revealed to me the white of the item in question. The card was small enough to fit into the palm of my hand and announced in black, neat, typewritten lettering:

 “Prof. Hugo Laghari of King’s College, London.

To be called upon at: 12 Arlington Street”

Casting my eye across the room, I opted to fetch my service revolver from its case underneath my bed and made to join Holmes once more, feeling comforted by the knowledge that its cold steel was resting against my breast. I did not like making use of it and would avoid doing so at all cost, but my friend’s tangle with the late Professor Moriarty had taught me to err on the side of caution, and I was prepared to draw blood if necessary to protect his life.

When I re-joined him in the living room, Sherlock Holmes had exchanged his nightshirt and dressing gown for the more dapper attire of pin-striped trousers, waistcoat and frock, casting off the Bohemian air as easily as he had cast off the dark mood that had previously been upon him. With his square jaw and fine accessories of pocket watch and sovereign he appeared for all intents and purposes a well-to-do gentleman. No-one, except those familiar with my stories, perhaps, would have known him to be the master sleuth Scotland Yard detectives sought out for help.

“Well then, Watson, let us have the facts,” said he, stretching out a greedy hand for the card that still lay sheltered in my own.

“12 Arlington Street,” I informed him as I parted with the item, “though I cannot say whether it is there that he wishes us to meet him or at his place of work. You seem amused, Holmes, would you care to share why?”

Indeed, my friend’s grey eyes had gradually filled with mirth as he had taken in the sparse information on our visitor’s calling card.

“Oh, it is nothing, Watson. One of those trifles that good men dismiss and wiser men value. I have had my suspicions, of course, but this almost certainly confirms it. Have you an idea of the location of Arlington Street?”

My knowledge of the city was sound, though perhaps no more so than average. I knew that the rich bought their houses in Kensington and Belgravia, that Clerkenwell was known as “Little Italy” for its citizenry and that most gentlemen’s clubs could be found around St. James’s Street and Pall Mall. But beyond that I was ignorant enough to have missed that which Holmes had so flippantly deemed a trifle. Arlington Street, to me, was of no significance.

Reading my thoughts as if I had spoken them out loud, Holmes proceeded to explain.

“Arlington Street is on the Eastern corner of Green Park, about a half hour’s walk from King’s College and a stone’s throw from Pall Mall. Here we have a man of Indian descent, a professor of mathematics who has obviously done very well for himself. Accommodation in such a location doesn’t come cheap, not to mention tax and the cost of living. Yet he is a confident sort who takes pride in his appearance and does not hesitate to splurge on fine clothes and boots. What does that tell us, Watson?”

I gave his question careful consideration, experiencing the familiar thrill that went hand in hand with working alongside the most brilliant mind in London.

“Well, Holmes, I cannot offer more than an educated guess, but it does indeed seem strange that he would be able to afford such comfortable lodgings, such luxurious clothes on the wage of a professor alone. Suppose then that he has another source of income?”

“Excellent, Watson,” he drawled, struggling to control the edges of his mouth that threatened to twitch upwards by their own accord.

“Yet you don’t suspect him guilty of illegal activity?”

“Oh quite guilty, my dear fellow. Though not in the direction your thoughts are presently taking you. I have no reason to believe that he has anything to do with the case of blackmail he has presented us with. But I do believe that his other place of work is at the club he offered so generously little information about. Why else would he show so passionately an interest in another man’s plight? There’s no need to look at me like that, Watson. Empathy alone rarely moves a man into action, not when his own hide is at risk. No, no, no. Mr. Lagahri’s stakes are far higher. But come now, let us consult the man himself.”

I followed Holmes as he swept outside the room, pausing only to collect his top hat and cane along the way. Another grey day awaited us beyond the safe doors of 221B and we were relieved to seek shelter from lashings of rain and icy wind under the roof of a brougham that steadily propelled us towards the heart of the city.

The streets were congested with vehicles great and small, and fellow Londoners valiantly pushing through the throng to make the appointments that had forced them out of doors. I studied Holmes throughout our journey, for there was little else to focus on but thick, colourless clouds and the dense concoction of sounds and smells. His hands had formed a plateau above his cane on top of which his chin could rest, and his eyes were staring ahead unseeing, privy only to those images that were occupying his thoughts. He seemed pensive, contemplative though not more so than usual and I wondered with sudden urgency what had transpired that had so drastically altered his mood. It was not the case, for the case had proven a source of great anxiety only a day ago. Perhaps my reassurance then that I would not desert him, no matter the risks involved? Whatever the cause, it was a great relief to witness his old, more joyful self emerge again.

Amongst the growing clatter of hooves we arrived at the roundabouts that punctuate the corners of Hyde Park, the weather dismal enough to deter all but the poorest souls from rambling through what would otherwise have been its luscious green.

“You neglected to answer my question earlier,” I remarked when my eyes had grown weary of the steady flow of hunched figures underneath umbrellas. “Are we to meet Mr. Laghari at his home address or at the University?”

Holmes bestowed me with a faraway look with which I was quite familiar; it was clear that the focus of his thoughts lay elsewhere and that I had begun to melt into a blur just as those figures I had watched in the rain.

“His calling card gave rather specific instructions, did it not? To be called upon at 12 Arlington Street. As a matter of fact, I am quite certain that he’ll be expecting us already.”

“He was so confident that you would act on his behalf?”

“Quite,” Holmes nodded, “there was little doubt on his mind that he would convince me. That and the fact that he gives no lecture on a Friday suggests that he will be ready and waiting. You can hardly be surprised, Watson. Of course, I sent out one of my Irregulars last night on an errand to find out as much as possible about Professor Laghari. He reported promptly this morning. It pays to know as much as one can about all persons of interest - friend and enemy alike. As an army man I’m certain you’ll agree.”

I could only be moved to dazed nodding, though in silence I agreed. It was slowly becoming quite clear that Holmes had taken every precaution on this case and his thoroughness frightened me. How powerful an opponent did he suppose we were up against?

Before I could pose further questions, however, we arrived in the cul de sac that constituted our client’s address. Whitewashed buildings rose skywards on either side of us while polished golden door signs proudly announced the numbers of each residence.

I let Holmes take the lead, following his effortless spring outside where his long legs elegantly danced around puddles. Rain relentlessly beat down upon our heads while we crossed the pavement towards the house in question where a familiar figure stood waiting by the window. A moment later he had descended the stairs to let us in.

Against the stormy grey of the sky, Hugo Laghari appeared like a bird of paradise with his royal purple tailcoat and matching tie of a fainter colour. He oozed the same confidence I had detected the previous night and beckoned us inside with the curl of one gold-adorned long finger.

“Come in, gentlemen, come in. The weather appears to be wreaking havoc on our fair city.”

He ushered us through a white-painted hallway into a warm sitting room that might as well have belonged to someone else entirely. Gone were those colourful touches that made his appearance so very eccentric.

Although Sherlock Holmes’s face registered little more than disinterest, I could see his sharp eyes darting hither and thither, taking in what my own eyes dismissed as irrelevant. And, indeed, there was little to be seen beyond the antique busts and heavy tomes whose spines spoke of mathematical formulations. Almost as if Mr. Laghari had taken every precaution to discourage people from drawing conclusions about his likes and habits.

“I am pleased you found your way here, Mr. Holmes,” said our visitor when my friend showed no desire to speak. “I am confident it can only mean you have accepted the case. Could I offer you some refreshments, perhaps?”

I made to open my mouth but hurriedly closed it again when Holmes began to speak in my stead.

“I believe you have something else to show us still, Mr. Laghari. Therefore, it might be wiser to dispense with the pleasantries for now and move ahead. Our cab is still waiting outside.”

“Quite right, quite right,” acquiesced our client with a barely suppressed smile. “Time is of the essence. Blackmail is a nasty business, is it not? And who knows how far this web reaches, how many more have been affected?”

“Your concern extends beyond the well-being of Mr. Wright then?” I asked as he collected his keys, noticing faintly how Holmes’s lips curved upwards in a satisfied smile.

If I had expected our host to look startled, however, I was to be disappointed, for he looked nothing more than pleased.

“Of course, Dr. Watson. Surely that can’t come as a surprise. Blackmailers are gluttonous, insatiable creatures and it only takes one affected link to shake the whole foundation of a carefully maintained network. The Cleveland Street Scandal was hardly an isolated incident.”

He fell silent then and remained so, save for giving instructions to our driver. Dangerous talk like that was reserved for the privacy of one’s home.

The cab struggled to make progress, as we jostled at an unfaltering stop and start through the crowded streets of London’s very core. Our destination, Covent Garden, wasn’t far and yet it took us a good half hour to arrive, a time made longer by the silence that lingered between my two companions. A kind of deeply unsettling unease stole over me as I cast my eye from one to the other, aware once again of the unspoken conversation, the unexpressed agreement that they had shared since that first moment in Baker Street. It was as if they sat warm and cocooned within a compartment while I was forced to stride alongside in the rain, confused and unable to see for all the drops of water. And I found I envied that Hugo Laghari appeared to have access to a part of my friend I had not yet become privy to.

Thankfully, I was spared a further descent into self-pity as we abandoned the brougham one by one and strode towards the familiar columns and arches of Covent Garden. The smacking of boots reverberated heavily from the cobblestones as we joined the throng of people that were feeding in and out of the covered market.

While elbows and shoulders bumped painfully against me, our client floated through the masses with ease, steering us determinedly towards our destination: Elysium. A public-house loomed ahead, its lush red façade and opulent golden lettering befitting its heavenly title. Warm lights shone through the mist that was beginning to swirl above the pavement and beckoned us closer, creating the illusion that the day was much further advanced than its twelve hours.

If my friend was puzzled by this development, he did not show it, and instead diligently followed Mr. Laghari into the establishment. The air was thick with the smoke of pipes and cigars, and the lighter, sourer overtones of beer and cider. A fair crowd had assembled already and largely clustered around the bar, flat caps and top hats, tailcoats and tattered and patched up trousers identifying men of all standings.

Heads turned in our direction as we passed, but eyes were averted once their owners were satisfied by recognition of our guide. There was an audible hum in the air and it was easy to see how positively affected Hugo Laghari was by it. There was even more confidence to the way he walked, even more pride to his posture.

This, too, could not have escaped Holmes and yet I found his focus resting on the very floorboards themselves. I had grown accustomed to his own method of observation but still experienced the familiar impatience at having to wait for an explanation, for there was no doubt on my mind that he was following a pre-formulated thread and had noticed far more than me.

Our trio marched on through a curtain that seemed as if it would lead to a private compartment, but instead brought us to a spiral staircase that wound its way ever downward into a space that could hardly have been larger than a closet. Here, beneath the foundation of the market we had crossed moments before, beer barrels and racks filled with plump bottles of wine had been pushed into a corner. And from the only bare wall, Mr. Laghari seemingly conjured up a door out of thin air.

Holmes’s eyebrows rose in mild curiosity as he examined the careful illusion, but he asked no questions. Not even when we were met by another door whose middle was adorned by a small, metal window which was initially closed to us. One tap of Laghari’s finger against the door had the window sliding open, revealing a weather-worn face and stern brown eyes. No words passed between the men and yet I felt that there should have, for the stranger was obviously tasked with guarding the door. Code words or gestures were a commodity in gentlemen’s clubs, for I was certain that’s what was awaiting us beyond the threshold.

And indeed, behind the second door and the burly doorman lay a large showroom whose red painted walls looked garish in bright gas. Plush leather booths fenced off the centre arrangement of round tables and chairs, and a deep red curtain and surprisingly large stage ensured that attention was drawn away from the coarser elements that were in need of repair.

“These are Sherlock Holmes and his partner Dr. Watson. Gentlemen, this is Giles Forrester, a loyal and trustworthy soul despite his questionable preferences.”

Mr. Laghari’s dark brown eyes glistened with amusement and the doorman’s challenging glance did little to deter him.

“He will be available to you for questions. He and I alone, Mr. Holmes. My patrons won’t take well to interrogations. They are here to enjoy themselves.”

“Naturally,” replied my friend calmly, “please proceed. I have no questions for Mr. Forrester at present.”

Further we went, past the richly equipped bar and towards a small corridor that had been all but swallowed up behind the majesty of the red curtain.

“Welcome to paradise, Mr. Holmes!” announced Hugo Laghari with a flourish, pushing open a nondescript door.

Within a few steps of entering the room that lay beyond, my eyes were assaulted by a mixture of colours, the origin of which was to be found in the variety of clothes that had been put proudly on display. Oranges, purples and blues, bright and brighter still.

Our host beckoned us to sit down upon a comfortable love seat while he draped himself over a chair elsewhere. On the mirror behind him, pictures of beautiful women had been pinned up.

“Might I offer you any refreshments now? The doctor looks as if he could use a sip of something strong.”

I felt myself flush in embarrassment but was spared an answer when Holmes demurred yet again.

“I’d rather you gave us Adrian Wright’s address.”

“Already? You do astound me, Mr. Holmes. Would you not like to know what it is I do here? Have you no curiosity? Why it is that I have brought you here, you think?”

The initial question struck me as odd. Holmes was more observant than I, yet Mr. Laghari’s baiting tone left little room for doubt that there was something obvious that I had failed to notice. Something he was inexplicably proud of. My eyes swept here and there, taking in dresses, skirts and stockings, spotting rouge, rosewater, lipstick and kohl before finally landing yet again on the photographs behind our client. Despite the beautiful feminine figures of the subjects, the curves and charming long hair, some of the features were so very familiar that- My God! These were men! Slender and feminine and in the guise of women but undoubtedly men! The dangers of Hugo Laghari’s lifestyle were becoming more and more apparent.

“I am aware. Your reasoning was quite simple, really. You wanted to make certain that we were dedicated to your cause, that we would not be tempted to betray you to the authorities. Now that we have set foot in your establishment and that you have the testament of several eye witnesses at your disposal, we are as guilty as some of your…shall we say…less involved guests.”

“Excellent, Mr. Holmes, excellent. Truly most astute!”

But behind the extravagant praise was a tone of steel, and the playful eyes had lost their kindness. This was a warning, and a final one at that. If he could not save his own hide, he would make certain to ruin us also should we arouse his suspicion.

And although my friend’s face remained guarded, his body was coiled as tight as a spring. He might have expected such actions, but he most assuredly did not like them.

Hugo Laghari, on the other hand, had begun to smile again and made quite the display of removing the golden ring from his finger. In width it could not have been bigger than a few inches, but it possessed several strands, strands that ended in the heads of snakes which spiralled higher and encompassed very nearly half the length of any given digit.

“Take this gift, Mr. Holmes and be sure to wear it when you come here next. And you, Dr Watson, must touch your index finger to your forehead like this. Giles has a list of everyone’s codes and symbols in his head and only if you present them, will he grant you access. Now here is the address, Mr. Holmes, as I see you are itching to admonish me again. Adrian Wright lives in Clairmont House, Greenwich. If he agrees to an interview, that will be your starting point.”

He rose to his feet, brushing his tailcoat out behind him, and strode across the room to open the door once more.

“I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

It was obvious that we had been dismissed and an ominous silence came over us as we made our way outside once more. Questions were clogging up my mind; so much so that I found it impossible to voice even a single one.

Holmes resented discourteous treatment which made his silence even more puzzling. And what about the strange instructions we had been given? Were they worthwhile or an unnecessary charade, seeing as how Mr. Laghari was aware of the details and whereabouts of his customers? One look at Holmes’s set jaw and stoic expression, however, told me that explanations would have to wait until Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thank you for your lovely comments and kudos! Please keep them coming? Feedback is always useful and means the world :)  
> \- one of my favourite moments in the Granada series is Holmes's reaction to Lestrade's words in Six Napoleons. So I've had  
> Watson witness a similar reaction to his words here  
> \- when Hugo calls Watson Holmes's partner he knows exactly what he's doing  
> \- Giles Forrester's questionable preferences are hopefully self-explanatory?  
> \- today, I finished writing the final chapter. I will tackle the epilogue and some editing next but will publish the next chapter  
> as soon as possible


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson pay a visit to Adrian Wright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thank you for your continued kindness and support!  
> \- tw: mention of suicidal thoughts

I found the journey home to be interminably long, confined to silence as I was and my head so very full with questions. Holmes’s expression of discontentment hadn’t altered since we had left The Elysium behind, yet he remained tight-lipped where weaker men might have crumbled and given in to the urge to express their anger. To some he might even have appeared disinterested, but I who had studied the nuances of his face so closely knew that some dreadful ire was boiling beneath the surface.

At long last our cab turned into the familiar street and soon we were safely ensconced in the comfort of our living room once more. The cold weather had seeped into my bones and already I could feel the dull ache throbbing faintly in shoulder and thigh, and so I busied myself lighting a fire, leaving Holmes to brood on his bothersome thoughts.

“That’s much better. Wouldn’t you say, old fellow?” I asked at last when the embers had started to gnaw on the logs, creating a soft crackling sound that promised warmth. “How miserable it is outside, and we have barely entered autumn.”

With a sigh I pushed myself up from my kneeling position and turned to find him standing in the middle of the room as if he had got lost on his way to either sofa or armchair.

“My dear chap, it is painfully apparent to me that Mr. Laghari’s actions have upset you. Would you not care to air your thoughts now that we are quite alone?”

I made to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder but withdrew it immediately when my skin met damp fabric. My own jacket had suffered a similar fate, but I had been much too intent on lighting the fire and much too pre-occupied with Holmes’s silence to notice. Now it seemed as if London’s mist was clinging to us still. A rack for our clothes was needed and perhaps a glass of brandy if we did not want to catch our death.

“I think that Mr. Laghari’s behaviour was quite underhanded, Holmes,” I proceeded when my friend seemed unlikely to speak, divesting him deftly of coat and frock, both of which I hung up by the fire, “but it hardly places us in a worse position than before.”

Again I touched his shoulder and gently coaxed him forward until he agreed to take a seat in his armchair. There he remained, knees drawn to his chest and slouched forward, looking much feebler without his usual rigid stance and dramatically billowing garments. He may have advanced in years, but his instinctive reaction to frustration and disappointment was still that of the young man I had encountered so many years ago.

I was accustomed to looking after him, not as though he was a child who knew no other means to help himself, but like a brother, a friend whose safety and happiness was most dear to my heart. I had schooled myself to apply the same professionalism to his treatment as I would to any other patient. But while my brain had rejected anything beyond his care, my hands still recalled everything they had learned. Every sharp contour, every surprisingly soft spot… I shook my head, willing myself to focus. No matter how much I yearned to envelope him in my arms to soothe away the ache in his heart, I would not act on it.  
  
After his death in 1891, my grief had thrown up tender feelings which I was pained to acknowledge, far more tender than those of a mourning friend, no matter how close. At the time, I had endeavoured to suppress them for Mary’s sake, for her health was failing already and I could not possibly waste a minute of what little time we had left on foolish wishes and regrets. And after her passing I had been consumed by different feelings entirely – darker, fuelled by rage and hopelessness – so that upon Holmes’s return, my feelings for him had been neatly packaged and pushed aside, enabling me to pick up my role as his friend, biographer and indeed doctor once more.

Even now, I could not help but feel that such actions would not only serve to make the poor man unhappier, as such intimacy would surely be a reminder of the risk this case posed. But, for my own sanity, too, it was wiser to keep a distance.

“You asked me to consider the dangers of this case, remember? If it is my safety you’re fretting over, I must urge you to stop. I have made my decision and you have made yours, and we will be seeing this through together.”

I looked around until I spotted the decanter on a shelf and poured each of us a generous glass of brandy. Holmes accepted the drink which was firmly thrust into his hands, but he made no attempt to sip from it.

Feeling my patience run dry, I removed my own wet jacket and set aside my gun, and went to retrieve my pipe. It still rested on the mantelpiece where it had been discarded the night before when no exotic stranger had threatened our safety and reputation.

Oh, but it was no use lying to myself! Holmes had been in the grips of this miserable mood long before Mr. Laghari had even set foot into our rooms at Baker Street. It was merely easier to resent him than to admit how desperately I missed my friend’s attention.

Thankfully, stuffing shag into my pipe proved cathartic enough to calm my spirts so that when I went to face Holmes again, I was able to address him with gentleness once more.

“Drink your brandy, and tell me what you have observed. You know it brightens your mood to enlighten me.”

At last there was a flicker of life in those grey eyes and the slender hands finally guided the glass up to his lips. “You seemed surprised at our client’s secondary occupation. Had you expected something else?”

I leaned back in my armchair and slowly sucked at my pipe. “I must confess that a concrete thought hadn’t formed in my mind. As I told you, I had expected it to be something illegal…perhaps I had even begun to consider him an owner of that public-house.”

“But not a female impersonator?” inquired Holmes with the shadow of a smile on his face. “It was you who mentioned our client’s well-kept fingernails when asked to describe his appearance. You remarked that he was concerned about his appearance; an excellent observation. Perhaps a closer look would have offered up more clues? Take the careful trim of his hair, for example. Did you observe the structure of the strands? No? Well, they suggested that this was a practical arrangement, often repeated and designed to suit his habit of wearing wigs when performing.”

“Surely, Holmes, there could also be a different explanation. Any dedicated military man will tell you about the benefits of a short, neat haircut.”

“Perhaps,” granted my friend, though there was a hue of amusement to his tone and a languor to the manner with which he waved my objection away that suggested he was merely humouring me. “But when one considers the redness of his eyes that clearly suggests an irritation and one finds hints of kohl on fingers otherwise marked by chalk, then one must reach one conclusion and one alone.”

“Oh very well, Holmes. You have solved it as expertly as always.”

I may have been grumbling, but secretly I was pleased that my plan had created the hoped-for effect. There was a splash of colour on those sharp, pale cheeks now and as words had given voice to his thoughts and observations, his body, too, had unfurled itself from its tightly-coiled state.

I had succeeded completely or would have done, had I not uttered that last, careless statement. All at once, Sherlock Holmes was on his feet again, setting his glass down with such emphasis that the crystal cried out in protest.

“But that’s just it, Watson! I have solved absolutely nothing! My intuition tells me that Mr. Laghari is not the villain he appears to be on first glance. But how can I be certain when I haven’t enough data?”

With one arm tucked firmly behind his back, he proceeded to march up and down our already threadbare carpet.

“Everything he has shown us so far is irrelevant to the case he presented. The Elysium and its members might be at the heart of it, or, indeed, threatened by it but for now they are nothing but theatrics…colourful distractions…but why? Why would a man who is filled with concern for his people opt for such a strategy?”

I knew that Holmes was talking to himself. He often did so, benefiting from my presence even in silence – or so he had assured me on occasion. Still, they were excellent questions and I could not help but turn them over in my own mind, and after some consideration, what occurred to me was this.

They weren’t so different, my friend and Mr. Laghari. Both were highly eccentric but sensitive and, therefore, all too aware of the position they held in society. Nonetheless, both men were fiercely devoted to the lives they had created for themselves and willing to protect them at all cost.

“Perhaps,” I spoke carefully, “Mr. Laghari is caught between two contrary emotions. On one hand, he must consider you a threat. There is no way around it. Even through his little scheme, he can never be entirely certain that we are on his side. It was desperation that drove him to our doorstep, and desperation implies vulnerability, a state which a man of his nature, not to mention his background, must absolutely detest. On the other hand, he is a proud man who has achieved much. Consider his position at the University for example. A professor of mathematics of Indian descent? Unthinkable. And, of course, there is his other business. How long must he have planned and schemed to create this establishment? How carefully must he have considered his clientele? But it is working, or it has been working for a while now. How could he possibly resist showing us?”

Holmes listened to my hypothesis, curling his long fingers and tapping his forehead with their tips. He was so firmly in the grips of this fresh agitation that it required a great deal of strength to focus.

“You may very well be right, Watson,” said he at long last, “but the art of deduction cannot possibly rest on the shoulders of speculation. I must know more, I must!”

And saying so, he strode with determined steps towards his bedroom where he noisily rummaged about until he returned, a short while later, clad in fresh shirt and frock.

“Where are you going, Holmes? You cannot call upon Mr. Wright unannounced and in this dreadful weather. Come and sit down by the fire again, it will do you good, and I shall have a word with Mrs. Hudson and see if I can’t coax her into making us a nice, hearty meal. It is the best remedy when you are chilled to the bone. Do take a seat, my man-“

I made to say more but his gaze held me arrested. For a moment or two he did not speak or move, but regarded me with the tenderest expression I have ever seen in those grey eyes. Indeed, I was so captivated by his gaze, so utterly confounded, that I had little idea what to do with myself. Shame and hope thrummed in my breast, daring me to act yet paralysing me, lest I was mistaken. There was a subliminal familiarity to that look, as if he had bestowed it on me before when rousing me from slumber or playing me to sleep. In my haze, I blindly sieved through memories in search of that missing clue, but the answer remained obscured in the dark. Surely it must have been there in those fleeting moments one so often takes for granted. How had I not paid attention? How was it that I felt even now ignorant to something of almighty consequence?

But the moment passed and my friend’s eyes took on their introspective look once more. “Do have Mrs. Hudson bring up supper, Watson, it sounds like a marvellous idea.” He turned to the door. “But I cannot eat or drink or sit still until I have cast some light upon those shadows that have begun to stretch as far as Baker Street. But fret not, I have no intention of paying Mr. Wright a visit; that can wait until tomorrow. But I must endeavour to find out more about the curious Hugo Laghari.”

And with little more to be said, he whisked out of the house.

I spent most of the evening by the fire, dipping in and out of _The Aeneid_ while my mind struggled to process everything that had taken place. I had sought comfort in the epic many a time before, having held great admiration for mythical heroes and valiant battles since boyhood. I had, perhaps naively, set out towards Afghanistan with images of heroic deeds in my mind, for I had not gone to slay but to heal, and yet the brutality of war had shattered every possible illusion. And those lines that had excited me as a youth began to reverberate with a truth that until then I had been determined to deny.

_Vast crowds the dying and the dead surround;_

_And the yet reeking blood o'erflows the ground._

It was the familiarity of it – however terrible - that had prompted me to pick it up that evening, fingers skimming over torn and tattered pages. But the thoughts were too persistent, tearing me away from one pair of condemned men to the next.

Eventually, when darkness had fallen around me and even the street lights had been reduced to little more than pale, floating orbs amidst a thick curtain of fog and rain, a strange memory drifted to the surface.

I had been pondering the reason behind the instructions Hugo Laghari had given us and, in particular, the ring he had presented to Holmes, which had disappeared from my mind as quickly as it had disappeared from sight once it had landed in his palm. Was it a mere trinket or had our client had cause to bestow this particular ring to my friend?

I had been just as puzzled about the gesture I had been told to repeat in order to gain entry into The Elysium. A touch of index finger to forehead, almost too simple, too risky to serve as a code for a molly-house. But its significance revealed itself to me in a flash of recollection that our brains are sometimes capable of.

_Dead silence in the thunder of the battlefield. The night unforgivingly cold as the day had been warm. Skin against skin. He not much younger than myself. Sated but restless, soft but firm to the touch. A beautiful contradiction. My first._

_“How did you know?”_

_“Oh, I saw it right away. One develops an eye for such matters.”_

_Lips that paint a smile on my skin._

_“Is it truly that apparent?”_

_He hears the fear in my voice and shrugs._

_“You know in Roman times sodomitic lads employed this gesture to find one another.”_

_A touch of index finger to forehead._

_“We’ll always find each other.”_

_He speaks with conviction that sees me through the night._

Upon remembering, I almost made to turn and tell Holmes –the origin of the gesture, not how I came to know, of course - when I realised that I was quite alone. Conviction has faded over time. What sadness this realisation brought! How I wished he would return!

My hands cramped around the armrests of my chair as my ears were being assaulted by silence, and the darkness was so profound not even the fading embers knew to cast a light. Sorrow constricted my throat and brought back memories of the woman I had loved and lost, of the never ending quiet that had infiltrated our house, of my pitiful pleas that she may return, that _he_ may return, lest I find the courage to take my own life. In my head, I was now pleading with him again, thirsting for proof that he was indeed alive and I not alone in this world without anyone to call my own. But the silence that had befallen our rooms since his departure persisted and did so until morning when I awoke to the touch of his hand.

His touch was cool and soft and entirely welcome upon my own skin that was uncomfortably hot after another night of troubled sleep. At first I hesitated to open my eyes, so muddled was my brain still from the onslaught of information and pain the previous evening, and the gentle connection of skin against skin so nourishing that I was reluctant to break it.

“Watson.”

His voice was hushed, tired around the edges. His fingers traced my arm, caressed my wrist, lavishing such careful tenderness on me that I wondered if he had any inkling that I was awake. All at once, I remembered the gaze he had bestowed upon me the previous night and felt my body respond with aching longing.

“Wake up, Watson.”

I did not wish his fingers to still their dance but knew that I needed to emerge into reality once more.

“Holmes, forgive me, what time is it?” I muttered as I so often had done when I had found him standing by my bedside, coaxing me awake.

Today, though, the hour was much more advanced than I had anticipated and I sat up startled. I was a man of particular habits, after all, and unaccustomed to long periods of inactivity.

“I have just sent notice to Adrian Wright of our impending visit, and I believe it is paramount that we follow up on it swiftly. I fear we should have gone there much sooner, had I not been so stubbornly intent on making sense of Mr. Laghari.”

I still was puzzled by his obsession with our client but decided, pragmatically, to postpone any such inquiries until a more opportune moment. Nonetheless, I experienced a sudden emptiness where before I had been filled with the warmth of his touch.

“Has Mrs. Hudson prepared breakfast yet?” I asked instead, clambering out of bed. “Have you eaten?”

“Where time has allowed it,” he replied, amusement playing in those grey eyes. “Though I suspect not enough to please you, my dear fellow.”

“I should think not. I know your habits, Holmes, so do proceed downstairs and have some more while I wash and dress.”

He bit back a chuckle but followed my instructions, knowing by now that it was futile to resist. Soon, we had both assembled at the table below, consuming mouthfuls of eggs, toast and ham - more than he had eaten in some time. All the while I could feel his eyes darting over me, trying to follow the clues that my exhaustion had undoubtedly left behind. If he reached any conclusions, he did not voice them. And so, with little else to be spoken about, we swiftly found ourselves in a brougham again, jostling through the city towards Clairmont House.

The weather had brightened and a few rays of sun were tentatively poking through the layer of cloud that still held the city enveloped. While my companion proceeded to melt further into the shadow of the cab, I leaned forward, eager to soak up more of the warmth, knowing that it would pass much too soon. The damp of the previous day still seemed to linger in my bones.

“You are in some discomfort,” spoke my friend and I found myself blushing to be at the focus of his observant gaze. His gentle touches and lingering looks were at the forefront of my mind, and I feared my desires to be all too transparent. “I suspect the weather is taking its toll on your injuries.”

It was a statement and yet a questioning note clung to it. Undoubtedly he was adding my discomfort to his list of previous observations. Perhaps then my physical state was enough for now to deter him from any suspicions regarding my emotions.

“Nothing a visit to the Baths couldn’t rectify, Holmes,” I hurried to assure him. “It is a seasonal malady, as you well know and can be treated wonderfully with warmth and massages.”

But when I turned to glance at him, his eyebrows were pulled together and his lips were pinched. He disapproved, and yet I could not see why. It had been Holmes who had introduced me to the wonders of the Turkish Bath, after all. At once, my fears returned. Had he seen through my thin disguise and recognised my true nature? Was he distancing himself now? The disgusted tone with which he had spoken about The Elysium that first night haunted my ears.

“Well, if you are quite opposed to it, I shall go by myself. I will be of no use to you when I can barely walk.”

He had made me cross and seeking to defend myself, I did not hesitate to let him know. His cases usually fascinated him to the extent that he neglected his personal well-being, but never before had he demonstrated such disregard for _my_ health.

The air in the cab remained charged for some time until finally he lowered his hand upon my knee. I felt his fingers through the fabric of my trousers and wistfully thought back to morning. My heart froze in my chest, then skipped frantically, caught between opposing rhythms. It was too sweet, too light this gesture of comfort. Insufficient in satisfying my cravings, nurturing only my hope, my desire for more.

“I have angered you, Watson, forgive me. I merely wondered whether it would be wise to seek out that particular location when we find ourselves entangled in a complicated case.”

A pederastic case, he meant, of course, and I found myself growing tenser still. A burning heat made its way up to my face but not for shame of my nature but for this foolish hope he had unknowingly ignited. I cursed his touch and wished never to have received it.

“Frankly, Holmes, I do not care. I am worn and weary and in need of aid. Would you have me boycott pharmacies if I was a dying man because they might insinuate a drug habit?” My anger silenced him once more and his fingers drew together on my leg as if fearing to lose their grip. “Perhaps it is you who should have spent more than one night deliberating whether you are truly prepared to take on this case.”

I did not know whether he was aware of how deeply he’d wounded me, how much I yearned to escape the confines of the cab. But I would not have fled even if I could, for he was my only companion. I had turned my own back to certain establishments in the past, and so had only myself to blame if I was forced to live a lie now, suffering rejection from the one man I held most dear.

At any rate, my mood did not lighten and Holmes contributed nothing more, perhaps in fear that he might upset me further. I was so occupied with myself that I had no eye for the scenery that I otherwise so cherished. Greenwich looked splendid whatever the season, be it the tentative green of spring, the sea of flowers in summer, a dusting of snow in winter or the colourful leaves now in autumn. But to the one whose mind is possessed by darkness everything looks drab and bleak.

Clairmont House was what would be a deemed a small mansion with a reasonably sized garden that afforded views over the slopes, down to the Thames and the rest of London. Whoever Adrian Wright was, he certainly did well for himself. Gravel crunched underneath my soles as I wandered after Holmes and a little bit unsteadily, towards the front door. Soon, I’d have to make use of my own cane once more.

To my surprise, it wasn’t a maid that answered the tolling of the bell but a well-dressed woman who could not have looked unhappier. Hers was the air of utter sorrow, and with such pale skin and fair hair and eyes of a peculiarly light shade of blue, her heart may well have stopped beating in her chest long ago, leaving behind little more than a shell that was doomed to exist nonetheless.

“Mr. Holmes, I presume?” she asked and there was a frailty to her tone that was no longer unexpected.

“Indeed, Mrs. Wright,” answered my friend with extraordinary kindness. “I am pleased to see that my card has already reached you.”

Holmes could say all he wanted about his dislike for the fair sex, he still possessed a great intuition and tactfulness when it came to detecting human suffering.

“This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson. We would like to talk to your husband.”

Her thin lips curled upwards as she nodded and beckoned us to follow her, and while she moved the many layers of her salmon-coloured dress seemed to ripple higher and higher like waves capable of consuming her petite form.

The house we were guided through was tastefully decorated but lacking the opulence I had come to associate with the wealthy. Paintings lined the walls and beautiful statues of the finest marble formed the centrepieces of each corridor we passed through, but the rest remained understated and bare. Perhaps I had been wrong to assume then that Adrian Wright's position was one of power and affluence. The inside did not reflect the outside.

At last, Mrs Wright's steps halted and she pushed open the doors that led into a room furnished as an office. Sunlight flooded in through the large windows opposite us, initially blinding the eye to the figure seated behind the desk. But once adjusted to the brightness, I could make out a man of rather nervous disposition. He could not have been much older than myself or Holmes, but he seemed aged by a crippling fear that cramped up the muscles in his face. He was tall and strikingly broad and fit, with narrow brown eyes and a fine beard that was obviously well kept.

“Darling? These are Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They have come to see you.”

Her tone remained unchanged while the expression in her husband’s eyes moved from hopeful and affectionate to sour and displeased.

“I had no idea we were expecting guests,” said Adrian Wright, rising to his feet and discarding his pen as he rounded the table. His hands were quivering and stained by ink.

“My husband has only just come back from an outing. There was hardly time to give notice.”

Curiously, Mrs. Wright had turned to address us once more, and it seemed to me as if she was reluctant to engage with her husband. Had she found out about the blackmail, I wondered.

Stranger still, my friend’s gaze was directed towards the floorboards once more where it remained until he finally saw fit to speak.

“The fault is all mine, Mr. Wright. The matter is so urgent, I’m afraid, that I only just managed to send note ahead of my arrival.”

“You worry me, Mr. Holmes,” replied the man on whose face a nervous smile twitched and disappeared. “Perhaps this is better discussed alone?”

His hint, however, was superfluous as his wife had gradually distanced herself and moved to leave the room before he had so much as finished his question. Holmes nodded and then sank uninvited onto a chair in front of the desk.

“I will speak candidly, Mr. Wright, to spare you the agony of waiting. I have been informed that you are being blackmailed.”

The poor man turned even paler and clasped on to the nearest piece of furniture for support.

“Do take a seat, Mr. Wright,” I urged him, afraid that he might faint and do serious harm to himself.

But he seemed unable to hear me and proceeded to stare blankly at my companion. Perhaps he was debating whether or not to deny these allegations, but in the end the truth won out.

“I wish he wouldn’t have told you. Yes, I know who sent you. There’s only one man I’ve shared my burden with and I’ve regretted it since.”

“Mr. Laghari is concerned about you. Otherwise he would not have sought me out and broken your confidence. Your affairs are your own, I can assure you, and you must fear no further danger from either myself or Dr. Watson.”

“Perhaps not,” Mr. Wright uttered quietly, crumbling in on himself like a man who had been defeated. “I understand you act as an independent agent with no affiliation to Scotland Yard. But your judgement would still be mine to bear. There is judgement everywhere…it is inescapable.”

Bitterness marred his handsome features and I shuddered at the darkness I suddenly perceived beyond.

“If you shared the details of your ordeal, I will attempt to minimise your suffering and that of Mrs. Wright.”

Something flickered in those brown eyes, then disappeared. With what looked like considerable effort, Adrian Wright pushed out a deep breath and smoothed down his shirt. When he spoke again, he sounded much more collected.

“You know, of course, on which grounds I am being blackmailed, although for what it’s worth I assure you that I have not engaged in any such acts since marrying my dear Helen. Still, my past is an open book to some, one of which, it appears, has decided like Hugo Laghari to betray my trust. His name is Horace Ainsworth, a former diplomat who is untouchable for most. We were in the military together. He, older than I, educated me in everything a young, naïve boy needed to know. Before you ask, I was frightened – as were most of us young ones who’d signed up - but I was willing.”

Holmes had assumed his listening posture – lids half closed, chin resting upon his breast – and the concern and impatience I had previously been met with had entirely disappeared.

“And upon your return to England you met your wife?” I asked, for I had been unable to shake the image of Helen Wright’s eyes that were so empty and hopeless.

“Shortly afterwards, yes,” came the prompt reply. “I took to her the moment I laid eyes on her. She’s always been quiet and soft-spoken, a kind soul too often exploited in her youth. People in misery were naturally drawn towards her while those of high rank, those characters who pride themselves on their wealth and other superficial matters hardly seemed to know she was alive. All the better for me then, for I saw her and I loved her and she became mine.”

“When did the blackmail start and how?” Holmes suddenly interrupted us. “I must have facts, Mr. Wright, and I beg you to leave nothing out.”

He had moved forward in his chair and was resting his elbows on the desk before him, steepling his fingers together under his chin. His grey eyes were sharp and focused, and I was swiftly tempted to follow their path.

“What do you mean how, Mr. Holmes?”

“By what means? You have identified the blackmailer yourself. Surely you must have reason to do so.”

My friend’s eyes slid over the large oak desk, over the many trinkets that adorned it. Down to one side they went where something blunt had chipped away at the wood, leaving a deep scar in the grain.

“It was a missive,” announced our client after a pause, “one that listed a complete history of my entanglements. One that threatened to ruin me with photographic evidence I am ashamed to think about.”

Still they travelled, across glass-panelled cabinets that contained fine china or stacks of paper. Before, at last, they settled on the fireplace which had recently been stoked, for the embers crackled noisily and the flames rose greedily upwards, licking after the material they had just been fed.

“I presume you have destroyed all evidence for the benefit of Mrs. Wright.”

“Of course!”

“And how long ago was this?” my friend asked lightly, though it had not escaped me that Mr. Wright appeared keen to avoid this question.

“No more than three weeks ago. It was a plain letter, Mr. Holmes. Directed to me personally. We have no maids, as you can see, only a cleaner who tends to the house once a week, so it was I who collected it myself.”

“And what did Mr. Ainsworth propose you do to keep your secrets safe?”

“Pay him, of course, and handsomely so. The sum he demanded was two thousand pounds. A preposterous thought!”

The reality of his predicament seemed to catch up with him, for he suddenly omitted a miserable groan and sank back down onto his leather chair.

“Oh, it is quite useless, Mr. Holmes. I cannot possibly find the money.”

Unmoved by his plight, my friend continued.

“How much longer do we have? You’ve said the initial letter arrived no more than three weeks ago. I’m certain it contained an ultimatum of sorts? Answer me this and I will have but one last question to ask.”

For a moment it looked as if the poor man could hardly find the strength to think. Too terrible were those details that must have been shooting through his mind. Then, with considerable effort, he looked up and met Holmes’s eyes once more.

“The end of the month, Mr. Holmes.”

A tremor passed through his voice and shook me also, for there was less than a week to solve the mystery.

“Thank you, Mr. Wright,” spoke my companion and rose to his feet, “you have been most helpful. Now where is it that I may find Mr. Ainsworth?”

Our client’s ink-stained hands gripped on to the edge of his desk. He trembled pitifully as though he was standing on the edge of a precipice, trying to take the plunge. Where he found the courage to do so in the end, I cannot say. But finally he collected paper and pen and jotted down the address of his tormenter. 

“I beg you not to despair,” Holmes spoke as he wrote. “I have all the details I need at present and we shall see if we can’t shed some light upon this scene.”

He accepted the note and folded it away and then nodded by means of farewell. Following his lead, I too turned to go when Adrian Wright’s nervous shout reached us.

“Whatever will you do next?”

“We will pay a visit to Mr. Ainsworth at the address you’ve so generously supplied, and see if we can’t dissuade him.”

“But my reputation, Mr. Holmes, my wife. What if he talks?”

“That would not be in his interest,” Holmes reminded him. “He will enjoy this power over you, not to mention the prospect of money. No, he will parlay with me at the least.”

And without another word he strode outside, leaving the wretched man behind. I hurried after him as fast as my aching joints allowed, hoping to catch another glimpse of Mrs. Wright but the house remained gapingly silent.

The warmth the sun had created on this autumn day did little to chase the chill from my bones. Everything was so reminiscent of the case that had involved Charles Augustus Milverton that the sense of foreboding that had befallen me almost felt like a premonition of what was yet to come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson go to pay Ainsworth a visit, but they are in for a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I've completed this story now so updates will come weekly  
> \- thanks for your comments and kudos

Silence held me and my companion enveloped as we left the slopes of Greenwich behind and returned into the blur that was London. Our visit with Adrian Wright had made it possible for us to interact as we once had, but my mind continued to be quietly occupied with our conversation in the cab. To escape the hell of unanswered questions and dashed hopes, I forced myself to examine the interview with our client instead and, after a while, conveyed as much to Holmes. He looked at me curiously but did not speak.

“I do not know what to make of him. He seemed anxious and unwell. It is quite apparent that he hasn’t eaten and is engaging in only the bare minimum of self-care. But somehow it is his wife that I find myself worrying over. Something is clearly amiss between them.”

“Well, of course,” remarked Holmes, his lips curling upwards in a wry smile.

“But that’s just it,” I insisted, “the affection he displayed towards her was absolutely genuine. I am certain of it, Holmes!”

My friend’s expression eased into one of mild surprise. “She seemed guarded. Our presence was not welcome.”

“Indeed not,” I nodded, “though why I don’t know. He told us he had burned all evidence, so what cause would she have to be suspicious. And suspicious she was, for she seemed to know who you are.”

I frowned and momentarily directed my gaze outside the window where shadow and light flickered past at rapid speed.

“I cannot quite put into words everything that I have observed.” I glanced back at my friend who was eyeing me softly and patiently, waiting for me to proceed. It was a courtesy he reserved but for few. “We were not welcome, but there was an air of resignation about her, as if she had anticipated a visit such as this. Do we assume then that she knows more than she’s prepared to admit?”

“That would be conjecture, of course, but for now we shall retain it as one possibility. You have an eye for such matters, Watson, and I would be a fool to discard your observations.”

He often spoke of himself in this fashion, as if he was quite blind to the softer human emotions, the subtle nuances that move and mould relationships. But I knew better, inexperienced though he might have been. Still, his praise touched me, although I sensed him wanting to make amends for our earlier quarrel. I warmed under his words until they had thawed even the last sting of rejection. To be his friend then, to be held in high esteem would have to be enough. If I had tucked away my true nature for years and years, lying to myself, restraining myself, then surely I could continue to do so if it brought such kindness to his voice, such affectionate look to his eyes.

“When he looked at her, Holmes, it was with open affection and hope. Yet when she did not respond in kind, he crumbled. It was a sad thing to witness.”

“Though clearly not the first time, Watson. We have seen many unhappy unions in our time.”

“Which you have accepted as a fact of life,” I pointed out with a gentle smile.

We had always differed on the topic of romantic entanglements, and I did not want him to think that I was chiding him more soundly because of our earlier disagreement.

“And I am not much mistaken. When society places expectations upon us and treats those who do not adhere to them as outcasts, well then, how many genuine unions could possibly be produced?”

“But he loves her, Holmes!”

“But does _she_ love him? Or had she no choice but to marry?”

I made to interrupt him, but he suddenly paused himself, a hint of remorse in his grey eyes. Not for the first time, I yearned for the privacy of Baker Street so that we might discuss freely that which was so obviously occupying his thoughts. Tonight, I vowed, tonight when we’d returned from the chase, we would talk openly.

“What have you observed then, Holmes?” I asked lightly. “It was obvious your attention was drawn in various directions.”

He hummed and with some effort focused on me once more.

“There is a red thread,” he answered. There was a lilt to his voice that suggested that this news, however, was less exciting than it sounded. “A fine one that may or may not prove valuable to us. Then there is more, of course, but whether it is of consequence I cannot yet say. I am hopeful that our visit with Mr. Ainsworth will shed more light upon the scene.”

“You don’t think it is too risky then?”

“We did the same with Milverton, did we not?”

“But with all due respect, Holmes, the stakes were hardly as high as they are now. Suppose he does not like our involvement in his affairs and chooses to realise his threats regardless of the initially established deadline? We will have condemned an innocent man!”

“We have no choice, Watson,” replied my friend impatiently, his hand clamped around his cane, “we must talk to him. The stakes are as high as they were before. Perhaps Lady Eva would not have faced criminal charges, but her indiscretions would have seen her ostracised also. Do not compare the suffering of one with the suffering of another.”

Hurt clung to his voice as he spoke, as if he was touched personally by it all, and perhaps he was.

_“Because Mr. Laghari like many of his kind, has developed an excellent eye for detail, especially for those pertaining to moods and attitudes.”_

That’s what he had said after our initial encounter with the eccentric Indian. I was so accustomed to the conviction with which he oftentimes spoke that I had not considered the statement more carefully. How could he, of no diverse cultural background, he who never seemed to have experienced romantic love, know what it felt like to be queer in London’s society? How could he speak with such confidence on matters unknown to him?

Perhaps his work with the shunned, those who feared the judgement of law or society had taught him. Or perhaps there was more to it than that. Had I not just that very morning compared him with Hugo Laghari? Had I, myself, not noted how his odd habits and eccentricities removed him from the rest of society?

I studied that familiar pale face with sudden, renewed interest, searching its sharp edges and fine lines for any hint that would confirm what I was beginning to suspect. But the years had taught him to train his expression so that only the haunting look in his eyes remained.

Could he be moved to love a man, I wondered, as I had done. Was his abstinence by lack of interest or self-punishment? His tone of disgust a defensive armour that had turned against its own master?

All at once, my heart thudded in my throat and a dizziness clouded my brain as I recalled for a second time that day the look he had bestowed upon me. Me! His friend, biographer and companion. How tenderly he had regarded me…not like a brother or a creature worthy of pity and compassion. He had coaxed me from slumber with all the gentleness of a lover, touches and gestures often before repeated but much too quickly dismissed. But why? Why? My brain demanded to know, the question drumming its beat against my skull. Had he thought me ignorant? Or had it been a fleeting weakness? His great mind silenced by the stirrings of affection?

I was barely breathing safe for erratic, short bursts of inhalation. My hands had clamped themselves around the edge of the seat to stop me from falling, but every once in a while a tremor passed through them that shook every inch of my body. I gaped at Holmes, openly, could not find it in me to focus elsewhere. These were the feelings he had roused in me the night before, those entirely novel and yet achingly familiar. For I had experienced them when he had taken my hand at Bart’s, at that initial encounter fourteen years ago. Not 24 hours before that encounter had I vowed to cast aside the sodomitic habits I had adopted at war. Less than 24 hours since I had set foot into an establishment not dissimilar from The Elysium and balked at what I had seen. Yet there he’d been, a curious enigma that I could not resist.

The feelings I had so carefully buried returned now at full force, coaxed out into the light by the deceptive promise of hope. Dared I abandon myself to them fully? Did I have the strength to resist? Already I was quivering at the thought of his touch, shaken by the intimacy of one gaze! Oh, it was fertile; I was quite lost. May Mary forgive me my foolishness! May she not think unkindly of me! I had not loved her any less tenderly. 

“Lestrade,” Holmes muttered all of a sudden.

The name of the inspector hit me with all the force of a cold bucket of water. And as I leaned into Holmes to follow his gaze, I tensed further upon spotting the man himself. He stood in the doorway of a well-to-do house, his rat-like face pushed into the folds of a scarf that had been hurriedly slung around his shoulders. His pale ears peeked out from behind the brim of his bowler hat and his dark, lively eyes were scowling up at those that were passing the scene. Several vehicles from the Yard had assembled in front of the white brick building also and with a start I realised that our hansom, too, was drawing to a halt.

“Holmes,” I whispered but he did not meet my eye and merely touched his finger to his lips.

His figure was poised and his jaw clenched and just above the rim of his collar, I thought to perceive the thrumming of his elevated pulse. He was thinking, quickly, impatiently, thoughts toppling over one another. Then his shoulders rolled back and his lips parted to let out a sigh and I knew he had found an answer to the curious problem that had suddenly been thrust upon us.

“Looks like we’re in for a surprise, my dear fellow,” was the last thing he said before he rapped his cane against the roof of the cab and jumped out.

Still perplexed I followed him, schooling my features so that the inspector would not be able to gauge anything. Holmes may have dismissed him as another imbecile of the Yard – a term levelled at anyone who did not meet his exacting standards – but I had come to know him as a capable chap who was highly perceptive at times. Better to be safe than sorry.

“Mr. Holmes! I suppose I should not be surprised to see you here!” Lestrade glowered up at my friend who had elected to stand directly in front of him, blocking the sun in which he had been basking on this chilly day.

Holmes smiled in response and I could see that he was earnestly relieved. Perhaps he had expected the inspector to be more suspicious.

“Wherever there’s a dead body you suddenly appear.”

“Well, it is my trade, Lestrade,” answered Holmes smoothly, though he must have been as shaken by the news as I was.

What had happened to Horace Ainsworth? Had another victim taken justice into their own hands?

“I suppose that much is true. Though it would interest me to hear who your client is. The deceased? What business could he have had with you? You know we will discover the truth sooner or later.”

“I have no doubt.” Holmes was smiling thinly. “But until you do, I’m afraid I am not at liberty to disclose any information. I pledge confidentiality to all my clients as I am sure you know. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see the body before it is taken away.”

The relationship between the two men had always puzzled and amused me. Adversaries though they were, I had soon come to realise that a grudging respect had developed over time. Lestrade was just as taken by Holmes’s deductive prowess as most who had witnessed it, and Holmes would rather have Lestrade involved than any other inspector. Granted, he had more faith in the mental capacities of the likes of Alec MacDonald, for instance, but he knew that Lestrade could be trusted. I say all this to explain why in a moment where the inspector could have easily denied us access to a crime scene, he chose – though not without uttering a few words of displeasure – to permit us both inside.

The marbled floor of the hallway echoed our footsteps as we advanced into the house, but we had only walked a few paces when soft sobbing drew our attention to a room on the side. Holmes stilled momentarily, his gaze falling down the corridor that ended in a white tiled kitchen.

A woman, mature in age, had folded herself helplessly over the large oak desk that formed the centrepiece of the space. Her body shook under the weight of her grief and the white apron she wore showed several tear stains.

“The maid, she only comes once a week on a Saturday. Has her own key. It was she who found him,” Lestrade supplied us in hushed tones, but Holmes only hummed, his chin jutting forward and then continued.

My legs would not so easily comply, however, as I found myself moved by so much sadness. We had oftentimes seen staff in distress – mostly due to the shock and trauma of what they had witnessed – but this felt personal. This woman was obviously moved by the death of her employer. How close they must have been, I wondered.

“She has been inconsolable,” Lestrade told me quietly. “They said that she hasn’t stopped crying since alerting the constables this morning.”

“Poor thing,” I muttered and then forced myself to move on, as Holmes had already turned a corner and disappeared out of sight. The house was so large and spacious that the body could have been anywhere, but he seemed to be naturally drawn to the scene, as if by instinct.

Horace Ainsworth sat slumped behind his desk. His large hands had gripped the wood while his generous chin rested against his breast. He was still wearing his morning robe. He looked almost peaceful.

I kept my distance for the time being, ready to be called upon should Holmes require my professional opinion. But for now he seemed content enough to form his own picture of what had transpired.

He moved like a dancer through the office space; his heels barely met the ground. At once he was drawn here and then there, nimble fingers skimming, feeling, probing. In all the years of our association, this display had never ceased to amaze me and I still felt a kind of privilege at the opportunity to watch him. Grace and restraint in equal measure, and a simmering passion for truth underneath.

Remembering Lestrade, I risked a glance to make certain he had not been observing me, for the admiration I held for my friend must have been plainly written on my face. It would not have been the first time and yet the acceptance of my feelings changed everything. Had I praised Holmes’s faculties in the past, I had done so out of firm conviction that I was merely appreciating him as a friend. It wasn’t hard to be impressed by his knowledge and skill, after all. By lying to myself about the depth of my emotions, I had not perceived any of the inspectors to be a threat. But now, everything had altered. One realisation had shifted the balance of my world, leaving nothing as it had once been. What if Lestrade were to grasp from a single glance that I was not only admiring Holmes’s mind but also the way his lean body moved, how I envied the surfaces his skilful fingers lavished attention on? Danger’s maw was gaping wide and I at its mercy lest I be more careful.

My friend had carefully made his way along the periphery of the room and only now gravitated towards the body behind the desk. He did not touch him with his hands at first, but leaned in close so that his ear was hovering in front of the deceased’s mouth and when he perceived no breath, he placed his nose closer instead. He was sniffing for any hint of poison but withdrew so quickly I couldn’t tell whether he had detected anything or not.

“Watson.” His voice was low, his mind elsewhere as he beckoned me closer.

I cast a look over my shoulder to Inspector Lestrade. “Your men have collected all the information they needed?”

I did not want to lay my hands on the body otherwise.

“Yes, Dr. Watson. He’s all yours.”

Holmes barely stood back enough to allow me close, but I still managed to squeeze myself into the space between his body and that of the deceased.

“Flushed face,” I observed, “blue-grey discolouring around nose and eyes. Crusted blood on the lips but small enough to stem from his own teeth.”

Holmes was hovering so close behind me that I could almost feel the intensity of his excitement rippling off him. 

“When did the maid alert the constables?” I asked, turning as much as I could to look at the inspector.

“Around 8 in the morning. It was her usual time to arrive.”

“Then she was just too late.”

I paused to look at my watch; it was barely past noon. I touched his eyelids, jaw and neck to confirm my assumption.

“Rigor Mortis has only just set in which means that he died anywhere in the last four to six hours.”

Holmes offered up a satisfied hum from behind.

“There are no visible injuries. Does this conform to your findings?” Once more I pivoted to meet the eyes of the inspector who nodded.

“My men found nothing that would indicate anything else. Perhaps an official autopsy would uncover more, but we have no reason to believe that such measures are necessary. He is a hefty fellow, is he not? And his maid tells us that he’s suffered for a while now from a weak heart. He’d have the most terrible spasms from time to time. Looks like this one was just too strong.”

“I agree. The signs found on his body certainly indicate as much.”

And yet they didn’t. Men who died of heart attacks rarely looked so at ease.

Carefully, I stepped away and made to excuse myself in search of a bathroom where I might wash my hands, when instinct compelled me to look over my shoulder once more. It was then that I caught Holmes crouching down under the table. He had lifted up one of Ainsworth’s arms to lower himself into the space, and with a start I realised that the signet ring which had been glistening on the deceased’s pinkie had suddenly vanished.

“Might I have a word with the maid, Lestrade?” called Holmes quite nonchalantly, as if he had not just removed something of personal significance from the victim.

“By all means, Mr. Holmes, though I doubt you will coax anything more out of her than we did.”

Quickly, I tore myself away and hurried to find a bathroom. I did not wish to venture upstairs in fear of disturbing the already shattered privacy further and so was relieved to find a small toilet that had been fitted just under the stairs. It was a compact, crammed space that smelled heavily of incense, and I wondered how Horace Ainsworth could ever have made use of it.

I made haste to wash my hands as I wanted to be present when Holmes interviewed the maid, but then a stack of papers caught my attention. Until this day I cannot say what made me examine them closer but the moment I did and I realised they weren’t all recent – some harking back as much as a decade - my curiosity knew no bounds.

What had Ainsworth been doing with this archive of articles? And why had his maid not disposed of them?

Some of the columns I skimmed seemed meaningless to me. Reports of diplomatic connections and economic developments, unlikely promotions and attempted prison breaks. Then a snippet, little more than an announcement, of the wedding of Adrian Wright to Helen Carter. Then another one, reporting the failure of Wright’s business.

Acting on a whim, I did as Holmes had done and folded the articles away in the inside pocket of my overcoat. It was quite apparent that Ainsworth had been keeping his eye on our client. Though perhaps that would matter little now.

I closed two buttons on my coat to hide my acquisition and then followed Holmes’s voice to the kitchen. The maid had not left her seat since I had seen her and the pallor of her skin which stood in stark contrast to the redness around her eyes was rather pitiful.

“Has anyone offered you a cup of tea or a sip of brandy?” I asked as there was a lull in the conversation and neither of the gentlemen seemed to have extended such courtesy to her.

Holmes’s pensive gaze softened when he saw me stepping into the room. “I do apologise, Miss Carlisle. I have been lacking in manners, the good doctor is absolutely right.”

“That’s very kind.” She hiccupped; her face did not obey her attempt to smile. “But it will hardly make a difference.”

A fresh wave of grief overwhelmed her and she buried her face in her apron.

“Lestrade, you will make certain that she is brought home safe? I have all the information I require.”

As disappointed as I was to have missed the interrogation, as happy was I to leave the house behind. The articles I had found were burning a hole in my pocket and I could hardly contain my curiosity as to the ring that Holmes had removed.

Together the men rose and the inspector accompanied us all the way to the front door.

“You have roused my interest, Mr.  Holmes,” said Lestrade, almost by means of farewell. “You have treated this with some suspicion, almost as if you had expected foul play.”

“Professional thoroughness,” Holmes replied nonchalantly, slipping his long fingers into his leather gloves, “and dedication to my work.”

Lestrade nodded and released us, but I knew as well as Holmes that he was not convinced. I was, therefore, quite relieved when we were back in our hansom and steadily gaining distance. My sleepless nights were beginning to take their toll, making me worn and weary and in need of some warmth. Truth be told, a hearty bowl of stew would not go amiss either.

The early hours of Saturday afternoon had barely broken when Holmes and I took up our seats in front of the fireplace once more. Mrs Hudson had generously agreed to supply us with food and we refrained from discussing today’s events until her return. Instead we sat quietly for some time – he, smoking his pipe; me, staring into the flames that were warming me up nicely – until a knock sounded on the door and our landlady bustled in, carrying a tray laden with bowls, mugs of tea and plates of bread.

When I hurried to my feet to help her, Holmes pushed me back down with gentle force and took the task upon himself. He often engaged in practical ways like this to demonstrate his concern for me. Perhaps it came easier to him than words. At any rate, the manner in which it was done mattered little to me, as long as the emotion was conveyed. And after my earlier realisation, I thirsted for any such evidence of his feelings. If I expressed the niggling pain that was plaguing my thigh, were he to touch me again? Would his fingers endeavour to ease my discomfort?

Shamefully, I recalled the presence of our landlady and urged my thoughts to safer shores. When she departed at last, Holmes cleared a nearby coffee table, set the tray down upon it and drew it close to stand between us. I thanked him too and leaned forward to collect a bowl; the scent alone was making my stomach rumble.

“We shall approach it chronologically,” he suggested after he had wolfed down several pieces of bread, “for there is much to discuss, and it would be all too simple to overlook some minor details.”

I nodded my head in agreement and savoured the rich flavour of beef, rosemary and carrots before answering.

“What do you make of Horace Ainsworth then? It seems we have reached a dead end.”

Holmes quirked an eyebrow at my ill-chosen words but thankfully chose not to tease me.

“It was an unexpected turn of events; that much I admit. And yet I cannot say it took me completely by surprise. Wright’s willingness to disclose the name of his blackmailer seemed odd to me. Victims hardly ever dare to hit back, as we well know, in fear of consequences. So how can we explain Wright’s behaviour? Perhaps he hoped that Ainsworth would crumble at the first sign of danger or he felt so desperately backed into a corner that he saw no other way out. At any rate, I did not believe that the matter would be settled just by paying him a visit. Somewhere I must have been anticipating…something…to happen. Of course, Horace Ainsworth’s death is unfortunate in many ways.”

“You don’t believe he suffered heart failure, however.”

“What makes you say that?” His hand paused in mid-air to retrieving more bread.

“The ring you removed. There must have been a reason.”

Holmes did not look startled at having been caught but rather pleased. _You’re coming along nicely, my boy,_ I could almost hear him say in my head.

“I expect the same to be true for whatever it is you were hiding in your coat pocket.”

His eyes were shimmering with amusement and I found myself blushing swiftly. I usually endeavoured to remain an upstanding citizen, but under Holmes’s influence – which is not entirely true, for I possessed my own mind – I had agreed, on occasion, to bend the law. But, as always, he seemed to gain immense satisfaction from this, something that still sent an unexpected thrill through my body.

“When I went to wash my hands, I discovered various newspaper articles that might be of interest.” I rose to my feet and stepped out into the hall where I’d hung up my coat. “But you must tell me more first.”

I settled down in the armchair once again, resting the articles instead of the bowl of food on my lap now.

“The house and the room itself offered up very little information. Of course, there were questions I would have liked to ask but couldn’t because of Lestrade’s presence. But initially, the upset maid was the most interesting observation. Then I went on to examine the room but found nothing out of the ordinary. If we indeed assume that Ainsworth was murdered, it is highly probable that he knew the culprit. The room was not broken into, furniture had not been moved and nothing had been taken as far as I, an outsider, could detect. And, as the inspector said and you saw for yourself, there was no injury to the body, and I did not notice any particular scent either as I lowered my nose to the victim’s mouth, making poisoning unlikely though not impossible. Apparently, no struggle had taken place.”

He paused long enough to lift his cup of tea to his lips.

“What struck me as odd, however, was the fireplace. Why was it lit when his maid hadn’t yet arrived? Ainsworth could have been cold and decided to light it himself. But he was in his morning robe. Had he wished to tend to his work, surely he would have dressed first, especially since he knew that the maid would arrive soon. Therefore, if we follow the thought that he did not die of a heart attack, the culprit showed up on his doorstep unexpected. But since he was familiar, Ainsworth waved him in. They went to talk in his office which would suggest their connection was based on business, rather than personal matters, and at some point a fire was lit. Amongst the logs and embers, I could just make out the burning remains of paper and ink. It could have been used to feed the flames, but I am hesitant to accept that with certainty. So we must store this piece of information in our memory for now to consider it again at another time. But I can see that you’re impatient to hear about the ring, Watson, though I fear my answer might disappoint you.”

He set the teacup down on the tray, once more, and from within his frock coat withdrew not one but two rings. I shifted closer to the edge of my chair, making the articles crinkle noisily, and took a look at both of them. To the right was the golden ring Hugo Laghari had given him, two snakes scaling upwards, fragile yet beautiful. To the left was Horace Ainsworth’s signet ring of gold, upon whose crown of blue two snakes converged.

“The connection might be non-existent, yet in a flash of pure intuition, I felt compelled to remove it. At the very least, Mr. Laghari might be able to shed some light for us.”

Jealousy ignited in my stomach with a sudden urgency that caught me by surprise. In those moments of silly hope and wishful thinking, I had not once considered that his affections may lie elsewhere. Now I was forced to view his interactions with our client through an entirely different lens. His strange preoccupation with him, his desire to dazzle and amaze, the familiarity of Laghari’s tone and the silent understanding between both men. Oh God, how it sickened me! To think I had wasted years on fear and doubt when this man, this confident, unafraid fool could waltz into our lives and claim what I had yearned for.

 “You’re rather taken with the man, are you not, Holmes?”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Jealousy roared like an ugly beast in my chest, blinding me and loosening my tongue.My friend leaned back in his chair and regarded me carefully. He looked neither startled nor guilty, but his expression was one of wariness that pained me. Such was the sadness of our condition, to sit rigid and fearful while awaiting condemnation.

“Did you discover anything of interest last night?” I hoped that my question would make amends and soothe the sting of the first. I could hardly see for all those dreadful fantasies taking place in my head.

His shoulders relaxed only gradually.

“If only I knew what I was looking for.” He sighed, a faraway look in his eyes. “Without a criminal record, it is impossible to say whether a man is drawn to good or evil unless you come to interact more with him and learn about his nature. He is of our age and came to England in 1857 when the Great Rebellion put his life at risk. His mother, an ayah, fell in love and married the English officer for whom she worked. He ensured safe passage for her and his son. The household was a wealthy but humble one, but he was always supported – especially by his mother – to stand on his own feet and provide for himself. Money and social connections allowed him to become a professor. He has worked all his life and never done wrong. About his personal life little is known which won’t surprise either of us. Whether he is trustworthy or not, I cannot say, though I am inclined to agree with your previous analysis. Given everything he’s achieved, he’d be a fool to not wish to put it on display somehow.”

A potent silence settled over us. It wasn’t hostile but foreign and novel which made my stomach churn in discomfort. The chasm cracked open between us once more, the Falls sang in my ears and ghosts were watching me from every corner of the room.

Had I yearned for his presence the previous night to chase away the memories of the losses I had suffered, I now learned that it was far worse to feel alone while in the presence of my most intimate friend. How much had I destroyed with one thoughtless remark? How much of my heart exposed?

“Please forgive me, Holmes. I spoke rashly and carelessly.” My voice sounded raspy even to my own ears, but the words allowed me to breathe easier. “I did not mean to imply anything unsavoury. The truth of the matter is that I have missed you…I am still missing you.”

His eyes found their way to my face, carefully, almost shyly. I hoped my candidness would not cause him discomfort.

“Ever since Lady Eva came to us for help you have been in the grips of a dark mood, blacker still than all those that preceded it. I was concerned about you, Holmes. I feared you might employ your opiates to soothe whatever ache in your heart. I feared the horrors you had witnessed on your travels had come back to haunt you. But I was selfish, too; my pride wounded by your inability to confide in me. Charles Augustus Milverton was a dreadful fellow, most despicable and ruthless. But why his behaviour affected you so deeply, I could not make sense of. I thought perhaps in time you would share. Had we not previously been able to talk about the most intimate of matters?”

I paused when he averted his eyes in shame. Once more, he had taken on the look of a much younger man, sitting helplessly before me, his body shrunken into the armchair as though he wished to disappear altogether.

What was it that stood so painfully between us? Why could I only find words that drove him further away?

In an act of desperation, I reached out for his hands that were grasping onto the fabric of his trousers, tethering him to me, lest he slip away once more. They were cold to the touch despite the warmth of the room and thin and fragile in my own.

Uncertainty stood written on his face that was cast half in shadow, half in the amber light of the fire. Oh God, I prayed, let me not lose him now. I would rather endure the anguish of seeing him with another than suffer the hell of his absence once more. My heart would not bear it.

“Please, do not let my words weigh heavily on your conscience. They were not intended thusly. I truly mean to express how much I value your company and how much I have missed it since you accepted that case of blackmail. Then Hugo Laghari appeared, presenting yet another case of the same nature and suddenly you were restored. Perhaps not entirely, for I still catch you in deep, contemplative states sometimes. But you had a drive once again and he was fuelling each of your inquiries. I became jealous, Holmes, I am embarrassed to admit. Jealous that your affection lay elsewhere, that I had become too bland, too mundane a companion. Mr. Laghari is certainly anything but.”

He did not respond, and so I clutched his hand firmer. In this instant, I had but little to lose, having spelled out so bluntly that ugly feeling that had gripped me. If he would not speak soon, I would tell him everything. I would lay my very heart on the line to make him see, to make him speak at least.

“Please forgive me the toxic pettiness with which I spoke. I feared losing you and could only seem to blame him for your absent-mindedness, your rejection of our visits to the Baths.”

At this he roused at last, driven by indignation, puzzlement in his eyes.

“My dear Watson, you cannot possibly see this as a personal rejection!”

 When I failed to respond, it was he who clasped on tightly to my hand. My courage left me as quickly it had come. My body tensed, my heart constricted. I could barely swallow around the lump in my throat. What if my feelings had driven me to see something that wasn’t there? What if he possessed none of those stirrings I had suddenly been so certain of? I could not bring myself to meet his eyes.

“I was trying to protect you! As you have said, you have made your peace with the risks of this case, but I have not. Not when it endangers the life of a man who has not once committed an indiscretion.”

But no, I could not be mistaken. The anger and self-loathing in his tone made error impossible. Surely he was struggling with those very same issues. Surely he was viewing me in a much more favourable light because he was punishing himself for what society deemed impure, because he could not begin to think that I might be just like him.

“But you gave me a choice, Holmes. The decision was mine to make and so I did. I am not nearly as innocent as you like to paint me.”

My admission had stunned him, I could see the curiosity in the grey depth of his eyes, the slight parting of his lips. And how could I fault him? I could hardly have spoken more candidly. Heat burned my cheeks as I imagined into what dark alleys his mind might be taking him now. I did not mind, not unless he rejected me. May his thoughts lead him wherever they wished! May he resurface with desire in his eyes instead of curiosity! I was burning for him, in front of him, gloriously liberated by one bold admission.  

“We will not do better when divided, Holmes. You sent me away in Switzerland, hoping to protect me while you faced the professor. You are hoping to spare me now, too, and while your intentions are honourable, surely you must see that they only serve to separate us. And of what worth is that protection then when it costs me my companion?”

A pained expression swept over his face, one of deep longing and despair. His eyebrows drew together and his lips parted more as he attempted to express his inner turmoil. But the words would not come.

So I shifted forward and out of my chair until my knees met the carpet. The articles fluttered forgotten to the floor.

“Whatever you think you deserve punishment for, you do not.”

My arms lay outstretched along the length of his thighs, his hung slack on either side of his body now. We spoke little more that day but remained like that, the intimacy of touch seeing us through the fog of uncertainty and intolerance.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A note from Mycroft opens up the case a little more.

When evening finally fell, Holmes and I were reluctant to part company. Although we had spoken no more of that which had stood between us and Holmes had spent most of the afternoon and evening in quiet contemplation, we almost instinctively sought out each other’s proximity. We shared the sofa -Holmes lying on his back at one end, his legs drawn against his chest; I sitting at the other end, a book in my lap – an appropriate distance between us but not so much that our bodies weren’t permitted to touch. We only shrank from each other when we heard Mrs. Hudson’s tread upon the stairs, exchanging guilty glances while she collected crockery and cutlery and gently scolded us (“Winter is almost upon us, gentlemen, and you both look like death itself. I urge you to take better care! I cannot possibly tend to the both of you at the same time!”). When she had left, we found each other again by the fireplace, passing more hours together until neither of us could think of a reason to stay awake. My lids felt heavy and my body had long ago become possessed with a leaden heaviness that muddled my thoughts. Still, I was loathe to leave in fear that my absence would resurrect the barriers between us that had only just fallen. But when he urged me to sleep and I rose on unsteady legs, I could think of no excuse to linger, and so I left.

My room was cool compared to the warmth of the sitting room and I shivered as I changed into my nightshirt. The sheets and pillows offered some comfort and I shifted about until I found a position that suited me. My eyes drifted shut as I prayed that we would rediscover this newfound closeness come morning.

It had been so easy to talk to him with vehemence, to urge him to be gentle with himself when I had failed to treat myself with the same consideration for quite some time. When I had made those first tentative experiences in Afghanistan my heart had been innocent still. I had loved freely and easily, only fear of discovery marring my joy. But upon my return to England, everything had become far more difficult. Yearning to find my place I had, with the help of fellow soldiers, located those establishments that catered to men of my nature.

I had witnessed the segregation within an instant. Gone was my naïve innocence, replaced with the knowledge that even within an ostracised community, people sought to further distance themselves from each other. Those frightened for their safety were condemning those that put on reckless displays. And those who chose to wear their heart on their sleeves looked down upon those choosing to hide.

I witnessed strange rituals and vulgar displays that weren’t to my liking – I, whose head was filled with notions of courtship and tender closeness. And I learned swiftly that my place was not amongst them. But in the end, I did not turn my back on them on grounds of differing tastes, but because I felt I would not be wholly accepted. I heard those sneering at women as if they were a baser race and bit my tongue as not to respond. How could I – who loved both sexes in equal measure – ever hope to be welcomed without distorting myself into someone I was not?

And so with time my boyish innocence disappeared. I could no longer retain the righteousness that had seen me through war and fed on those ambivalent influences of pride and shame that can so easily morph and alter our lives. Holmes’s innate bitterness pained me, yet I could not deny that I did not harbour similar feelings towards myself. Acceptance, it seemed at times, was an unreachable goal.

 

* * * 

 

Despite the thoughts that plagued me, I soon succumbed to deep, dreamless slumber. I only awoke the following morning to the sound of footsteps and muffled voices. For once, my body felt pleasantly warm and relaxed and although my mind was eager to chase after the cause of the noise, the rest of me felt quite content to remain in bed for just a moment longer. But eventually, curiosity won the upper hand and after washing and dressing, I ventured downstairs.

There was a distinct chill in the air as if our front door had stood open for quite some time, and I was surprised to find Holmes reclining on the sofa in little more than his nightshirt.

“Slept well, Watson?” he inquired, fumbling fingers closing his robe.

I could just catch a glimpse of his pink scarf underneath which dangled loosely around his shoulders. A flamboyant touch, one of many that I had taken for granted over the years. But this morning, it served as a beacon of hope.

“At long last,” I nodded, sinking down on the sofa next to him.

His eyes were shy and nervous as they met mine. The warmth of his body just out of reach. “You do look thoroughly refreshed.”

“I am glad,” I chuckled. “You have been observing me rather worriedly of late.”

He averted his gaze and searched his pockets for a cigarette, and I found that his surprising timidity was rather endearing. Rising to my feet, I crossed the room to retrieve a box of matches from the mantelpiece and offered him a light which he gratefully accepted. Our hands danced tantalisingly close to each other without ever making contact. My throat ran dry as I took in his flushed cheeks. Had our hands met, he surely would have burned brighter than the flame that now lit his cigarette.

After taking a long drag, he said, “Those newspaper articles you have come across are rather curious. I can see why they roused your interest, however. It appears that Ainsworth was watching Wright closely. I just wish I could formulate a motive. Milverton was like a fat leech, thirsting for more money and power. But we know from those papers you’ve extracted that Ainsworth was fully aware of Wright’s business failure. Therefore, money could not have been the objective. What then? Public humiliation? That would be most disappointingly simple. No, it does not ring true.”

“Perhaps a personal vendetta? A spurned lover?”

Holmes frowned thoughtfully and slowly shook his head. “I am not certain. Could Wright have posed a threat to him somehow? Many men accused of the Greek Sin have spoken out against their own kind to protect themselves. Still, I think his preoccupation with Wright – whatever the reason - could prove worthwhile in the end. But you seem disappointed?”

And, indeed, I could not deny that this much was true.

“I had hoped my find would offer up some more concrete clues…To your brain, at least. We have only been at his case for a couple of days and already it feels as if we’re swimming in a sea of obscure hints and loose threads. We can only speculate, as you have said yourself. How you hold all this in mind, I cannot fathom.”

“It is rather simple when often enough done,” he replied in a tone that mixed modesty with pride. “But come now, Watson. Let us not despair just yet. As luck would have it, I just received a note from brother Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?” I repeated, disbelief colouring my tone, for I could not see what role he might have to play in this series of events.

Holmes’s brother was a man of regular habits and particular tastes, who preferred silence and his own company to the noise of society. Like my friend, he was exceedingly bright and would surely have had an excellent career in crime solving, had this not required him to abandon his beloved armchair at the Diogenes Club and interact with others. Which was not to say that Mycroft Holmes was a poor man, on the contrary. For quite some years he appeared to have held a rather prosperous position in the British government, though little was known to me about his exact function.

Holmes pushed his cigarette between index and middle finger of his left hand and parted his robe with his right to produce a small folded up note. The motion stirred up a warm scent of lavender and soap that I had come to pleasingly associate with his skin and nearness. It created a delightful flutter in my stomach that intensified when finger brushed against finger upon handing over the note. Here was the touch I had so craved, a smouldering spark despite its brevity. Almost too much.

“Have a read, Watson, and let me know what you think.” Hurriedly, he lifted the cigarette back to his lips and drew at it to divert his attention.

My thoughts tumbled about as I attempted to focus. The information in the letter was scarce but concise. We were to meet Mycroft at the Diogenes at our earliest convenience as he had something to discuss with us regarding Horace Ainsworth.

“How odd!” I exclaimed. “I had not expected your brother to be entangled in this business!”

A shadow of something flickered across my friend’s eyes.

“Ainsworth was a diplomat, so Adrian Wright told us. It’s not surprising that Mycroft would have information on him. Though his desire to get in touch confirms my suspicions that Ainsworth did not die of natural causes.”  

“Then we must go at once,” I declared and Holmes chuckled at my enthusiasm.

“Of course, my dear boy, but not before we have breakfasted.”

He wagged one long index finger at me, imitating the manner in which I had rebuked him many a time. His comment had the hoped for effect, and I chuckled heartily and administered a comradely clap on the shoulder before we both rose from the sofa to alert Mrs. Hudson to our needs.

 

* * *

 

By noon we had made it to Pall Mall and were approaching the finely crafted building that hosted the Diogenes, one of the queerest clubs in London. Where most gentlemen’s clubs had dedicated themselves to the amusement and entertainment of their patrons, or prided themselves on being establishments where valuable social connections were formed, The Diogenes offered peace and quiet to those souls who, for one reason or another, preferred the company of their own kind without the pesky interruption of verbal communication.

There’d only been a couple of occasions over the years that had prompted a visit to the Diogenes, but as always, I found my eyes travelling over the buildings opposite, trying to figure out in which one Mycroft Holmes took his lodgings. Holmes’s brother despised physical exercise and had arranged himself comfortably so that neither his place of work nor his place of leisure were far apart.

Giving up my fertile search, I followed Holmes into the hall from which glass panels awarded a view of the large room that stretched out beyond, containing a multitude of men in cosy armchairs who were engrossed in newspapers or books, or enjoying the complimentary beverages. The marked silence whistled in my ears and instinctively I shifted closer to Holmes until our sleeves were touching and I could feel the warmth of his body through his clothes. He tilted his head in my direction, while one eyebrow rose in question. Then he read the strangled despair in my eyes and offered an encouraging smile, a lifesaver that buoyed me until we were granted access to the Strangers Room where Mycroft Holmes’s hefty figure loomed proudly in front of us.

“Sherlock!” He pushed himself out of his chair and bestowed his brother with a look that was equally worried and caring. Then, he reached out for my hand with both of his large ones and clasped it firmly and jovially. “And Dr. Watson, I’m glad you could join us.”

Without further ado he gestured for us to sit in the great leather armchairs before he lowered himself into his seat once more.

“It has come to my attention that you’re involved in the business that has robbed Horace Ainsworth of life unnaturally.”

Holmes inclined his head but remained waiting for his brother to proceed.

“And by the swiftness of your arrival I can see that you are not blinded by the Yard’s assumptions.”

“So it was murder then?” I gasped, unable to stop myself.

Both brothers looked amused, though my friend was quicker to stifle his smile.

“I am inclined to believe so, though my reasoning may puzzle you at first. Horace Ainsworth was a formidable diplomat in his day and our paths crossed many times, not in the least because he became a member of this club. He was a proud and confident man who rarely accepted a task without a firm outcome in mind. As an ally he was steadfast and determined, as an opponent he was an imposing force to be reckoned with.”

It was rare that Mycroft Holmes spoke with such passion and in his tone I thought to hear the echo of the grief Ainsworth’s maid had so publicly displayed the previous day.

“As he grew older he changed, softened is perhaps the right word to describe it. He learned patience and kindness and was a better man for it. Apart from wine and food, he enjoyed everything in measure and was fiercely protective of his privacy. Only a select few members of the Diogenes knew why.”

Holmes nodded in understanding and passed me a meaningful look. It appeared that my theory hadn’t been so far-fetched, after all. Perhaps Ainsworth had indeed been rather intimate with the men he had encountered in the military. Perhaps Wright had broken his heart and prompted this revenge. But when I turned my attention back to Mycroft Holmes, I felt that it couldn’t be true. Surely, he wouldn’t err so gravely as to call such a man his friend.

 “I believe the official cause of death was heart failure.”

“That’s what Watson concluded also.” There was no hint of mockery to his tone.

His brother hummed, a low sound that made his belly heave. Then he reached across to the table by his side and lifted a drink to his lips. He didn’t speak for several minutes.

“He was a sick man.” The sentence came forth with some deliberation. “And his heart the main villain, though not the only one. It was a week and a half ago that I saw him last, a Wednesday. He had visited the club to terminate his membership. He looked flushed and feverish but alive with an almost manic drive. He told me that he had been unwell for quite some weeks, contracting illness after illness, never quite recovering. He spared me the more embarrassing details of his ordeal but to say that his maid had found him in a pitiful state one day and cared for him lovingly as though he was her own father. She had urged him to see a doctor who had finally given him the dreadful diagnosis of heart failure. At best, he would have six months left to live.”

“But?” my friend prompted impatiently, scooting to the very edge of his chair in anticipation.

His brother frowned at this indignant display and steepled his fingers above his stomach.

“Well, Sherlock, I am hardly prone to wild assumptions or making decisions with my gut-“

I glanced at my friend who returned my look, his lips twitching desperately while I, too struggled to contain my amusement.

“But if a man hears he’ll have no more than six months to live and drops dead a week later, I really must wonder…”

“Nobody decides when it is their time to die, Mycroft,” Holmes said diplomatically, though his words did little to disguise the insatiable greed he had previously displayed.

“Then there is, of course, the small detail of your involvement, brother mine which, I admit, rouses my curiosity further.”

“The case is a curious one,” Holmes agreed, leaning back in his chair once more.

The tension had dissipated from his body for now and his voice had taken on that husky quality that marked him in a deep state of contemplation and excitement.

“I do not wish to blacken your friend’s name, but I must know, were you aware of any misdemeanours, any misconduct?”

Mycroft Holmes considered the question carefully, and I caught his pale blue eyes more than once skimming over his brother’s features. Finally, his brows furrowed and he let out a deep rumble of displeasure.

“Blackmail, Sherlock?” He must have noticed my surprise, for he hurriedly added, “Quite obvious given the circumstances and even the more dangerous. Perhaps we ought to continue this conversation privately.”

My friend’s nervous hands contracted on his lap before he urged them to unfurl.

“We are in safe company, Mycroft, you may continue.”

Had this been an admission or merely a display of trust? After last night, the matter ought to have been clear. But still I could not entirely quench the nervous flutter, the swirl of anxiety that danced in the pit of my stomach. But instead of proceeding, his brother gazed at me again, pensively, thoroughly and quite protectively, so that I found myself shifting from side to side with unease. An unspoken warning lay in those eyes, and I shuddered to think of him as an enemy.  

“If you are certain.” He regarded his brother reluctantly. “Horace Ainsworth was a good man. There’s nothing in his history that would make me believe he would blackmail someone. He had no reason. He was successful and financially secure. From what I could gather, he did have indecent relationships but in his youth. As he grew older, there was hardly any time left for such personal matters. And as I saw him last week, he confided in me that he believed heart failure to be only at the end of a long list of ailments. He seemed convinced that he had contracted a serious disease during his days in the military and perhaps used his professional occupation as an excuse not to engage with someone again. I won’t ask who you are representing, but I do encourage you to consider why someone would spread false allegations. Unless you’ve seen proof?”

“Only my client’s word and the remnants of burned documents.”

“Not enough,” hummed Mycroft, shaking his head.

Yet another dead end, I thought to myself. It wasn’t so much that I had adopted Holmes’s ruthless focus on facts and data over the years to ignore the wisdom of intuition, but that I had lost all footing in a case that seemed more and more to be built on personal warfare and manipulation. The possibilities were endless and so I yearned for one piece of hard evidence that would set us on the right track.

Whether Holmes had acquired any such thing was impossible to tell. His face remained inscrutable, but I knew that he took stock in his brother’s intellect. Not without reason had he deemed him the more observant of the two.

“What about this ring?” Holmes asked eventually, producing the piece of jewellery that had adorned Ainsworth’s pinkie.

Laghari’s ring of gold remained nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had known how concerned his brother would be if he knew.

“Does this mean anything to you?”

It passed from the slender fingers of my friend into the waiting palm of his brother’s fleshy hand. His cool blue eyes studied it carefully while he turned it around to expose all its angles.

“I’m familiar with it. I don’t think I have ever seen him without it.”

“So it wasn’t a new acquisition?”

Mycroft eyed him curiously now, trying to infer, no doubt, the reason behind the question. “No, I am certain he’s always worn it.”

 “Thank you,” said Holmes, plucking the ring out of his brother’s hand again as he rose to his feet. “You know I value your opinion.”

“Then listen to one more,” the elder Holmes urged, arresting us both on our way to the door. “You must be careful. Do not let your desire for justice lead you into murky waters from which you might not emerge. Your circumstances and personal arrangements have not yet warranted scrutiny but once the spark of suspicion has been ignited it, you may not escape unscathed.”

It was a powerful warning that could not fail to hit its mark and I feared, at once, the repercussions for our relationship should Holmes take it to heart. He had only just begun to tentatively open himself to me, and I, myself, was barely hoping not to be rejected for my nature. As if reading my thoughts, Holmes’s grey eyes fell on me before he looked at his brother again.

 “We have carefully considered the risks. My ethics compel me to act.”

Mycroft regarded him with respect and disquiet and nodded his agreement.

“Then this might help you further. Ainsworth’s funeral is set to take place tomorrow already. Invitations have only been extended to his inner circle.”

Yet another card passed from one man to the other, leaving Holmes barely enough time to take in the details before it disappeared into his pocket. I turned to offer Mycroft a smile by means of farewell and found him observing me pensively instead. I could tell within an instant that he was assessing me as one might an object of study or experimentation. Undoubtedly, he was hoping to ascertain whether I was to be trusted with his brother’s heart and good faith. And so I did my best to hold his gaze until Holmes clapped me on the back and beckoned me to follow.

 

* * *

 

For the remainder of the day, Holmes’s contemplative mood persisted. He smoked profusely while following after his lingering thoughts. Occasionally, he would break his reverie to consult my opinion on some matters, but I doubted that I could offer any assistance in unravelling this coiled up case.

Thankfully, the following day filled us both with purpose as we donned our finest, most sombre suits and made our way to Brompton Cemetery. Though the main of it had been dedicated to victims of war, Horace Ainsworth had elected to be buried elsewhere within.

The service took place under the cupola of the splendid sandstone chapel, flanked on either side by trees and foliage, gravestones and monuments; the stark, brown brushes rather befitting the sad occasion. To my surprise we were the first ones to arrive, welcomed warmly by a priest in white long-flowing garbs. He inspected our invitation, then shook each of us by the hand and bade us to take a seat.

Holmes guided me to one of the four columns that formed the pillars of the structure. He moved rigidly, one arm clasped behind his back, and only slowly sank down upon a chair.

Tentative sunlight shone in through the glass ceiling, making the light interior even brighter. If Ainsworth’s soul would have been welcomed with the same warmth had the priest known of his vice remained doubtful and it tugged at my heart. Perhaps Holmes’s rigidity could, too, be attributed to his personal feelings rather than his professional engagement, then.

Gradually, a handful of others joined us, exchanging solemn nods but little else. It was only when the service was about to commence that hasty footsteps announced the arrival of yet another visitor. I leaned forward and past Holmes, my thigh tensing against his, and spotted a man whose chest rose and fell under the weight of his heavy breaths. He looked younger than the rest of the congregation, with a shock of ginger hair and a collection of freckles on his pale cheeks. He was slender and fit, his biceps well-defined against the olive-coloured coat he had hastily flung on. With almost clumsy nervousness, he rummaged in his pockets for his invitation and then thrust it at the priest while his eyes scanned the room for a place to sit. He looked kind if also ill at ease. I would not have called him scruffy or shabby, though compared to the smartly dressed majority of the guests, he did appear somewhat dishevelled.

By my side, Holmes emitted a low, pleased hum and leaned back in his chair. For the rest of the service he sat like this with his eyes closed, the occasional twitch of his lids telling me that he was mulling something over. I couldn’t say that I possessed quite the same calm. The case was much too puzzling for me to hold my attention for long and with Holmes so closed off to me at present, it was inevitable that I became conscious of my own restlessness. The truth of the matter was that I had always been ill at ease at funerals. I had seen too many great men die in battle to derive any comfort from such services, and after Mary’s passing my heart was still smarting from my own, very private grief. And this was a stranger’s funeral. A man who for all we knew could have done much harm or much good in this world. Who were we to intrude on this personal affair, I wondered.

The eulogy was delivered with tact and feeling by the priest and although no-one abandoned their reserve enough to cry, it was quite apparent how much they felt the loss of their friend. But not one of the well-intentioned words would bring him back, would offer them the chance to share one more glance…one more word… I felt my fingers tense upon my thigh, felt tears press against my closed lids, only barely subdued. I missed her, would always miss her.

“And now I invite you all to pay your final respects to the deceased.”

A slow hum built up in the room that was joined by the scraping of chairs as everyone rose to their feet. Holmes, on the other hand, gave no indication to move and so I remained sitting until the last footsteps had faded, striving to contain the wave of sorrow that had threatened to drown me moments before.

“Should we not follow?” I whispered at long last when the silence had grown unnerving.

Slowly, Holmes unfurled one long leg which he had crossed over the other, and regarded me with a smile.

“I believe I have observed everything of consequence. The chaotic world we have been plunged into has grown considerably larger, Watson. But we’ve barely stood still in the last few days, so let us now return to Baker Street and rest. We’ll need the strength in the days to come.”

Puzzled by his statement, I nonetheless stood to join him. I could only imagine that he required more time to think, but I was mistaken.

“Of course, the brain never slows, Watson,” he told me in the cab in answer to my question, “but for now the matter is entirely out of my hand. Time, however, will bring forth some interesting developments.”

The smile on his face told me that he wasn’t so much uncertain about his hypothesis but determined to heighten my curiosity so that the final revelation would be grander still. What immense pleasure he took from my excitement and praise!

“But what about Adrian Wright, Holmes?” I probed nonetheless. “Do you believe he’s got news of Ainsworth’s death yet? Should we not tell him? It would be a great burden off his shoulders. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Already ahead of you, Watson. I sent note to him this morning. But believe me when I say that this matter is far more complex. Did none of the men just now seem familiar?”

“Familiar?” I repeated, pivoting my body so I was facing him.

He seemed at ease, comfortable even in his own skin, his eyes soft and his lips permanently tempted to twitch into a smile. It was, therefore, with some effort that I moved my mind back to the funeral congregation. I reflected on their dark suits and solemn faces but found nothing of consequence in my memory.

“Perhaps there’s something at Baker Street that will help illuminate you.”

And he would say no more until we had, indeed, reached our lodgings. There, he bade our landlady to bring us up some sandwiches and tea, before he climbed the stairs to our sitting room where he threw open the windows. The scent of his tobacco and the smoke that had clung to the walls gradually drifted out into the grey London air. With a flourish he flung himself onto our sofa then as if exhausted by this sudden burst of energy.

“Come, Watson!”

He beckoned me close with one long finger and reached behind him to retrieve the newspaper articles I had found in Ainsworth’s toilet a couple of days ago. “I beg you to look through them once more at your own leisure, and I am certain you will be as intrigued as I was.”

I accepted them wordlessly, though my face must surely have formed a question mark, and then began leafing my way through the papers. As I read on, there was a knock on the door and Holmes waved in Mrs Hudson who distributed a number of plates and cups over our table. Undoing her work and ignoring her cries of protest, he picked it all up again and moved it to the overfull coffee table – closer to where he’d been reclining a moment ago – where the cups held a precarious balance on their saucers. As soon as the food had been put down, he ushered our still scolding landlady out again and manoeuvred me to sit alongside him on the sofa.

“This man,” I spoke eventually, tapping one article with my index finger, “this man was at the funeral.”

I leaned in closer to Holmes whose long legs were stretched out across the floor. He barely took one look at the picture before he nodded and smiled.

“Dr. William Bainbridge. You’ve not come across him in your professional capacity?”

I shook my head while my eyes travelled over the few lines of writing that accompanied the picture.

“I know very little of him at present either,” Holmes proceeded, “though the paper seemed surprised at his sudden promotion ten years ago. But I am certain our paths will cross again in the near future. Now read on, good fellow, see what else you’ll discover.”

What he meant, of course, was who else. And indeed it did not take long before another faintly familiar face gazed up at me from an article. He possessed a rather square head with a dusting of finely cropped light hair. His eyes were cool but determined, even in the black and white of the picture and if the headlines were any indication, he had every reason to be. He and another guard had just stopped a prison break.

“Peter Archer, formerly of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps.”

“I know them. Some of them were stationed in Afghanistan, others in India or South Africa. They did some good work in the last decade.”

Holmes smacked his lips impatiently and gave a curt shake of the head. “There’s no good work to be found in war.”

“Not even that of a doctor?” I challenged and he acquiesced temporarily, patting my hand with his.

“At any rate, it is highly likely that these men are a piece of the puzzle. Adrian Wright mentioned his own military background which saw him meeting Ainsworth. Both Archer and Bainbridge were close enough to Ainsworth to attend his funeral while Ainsworth himself appeared to keep a close eye on all of his former comrades. All but one…”

“What do you mean?” I asked curiously. Holmes’s hand was still resting on mine.

“The man who entered last, I believe you noticed him also.”

I recalled within an instant the young fellow with ginger hair who had rushed breathlessly into the chapel.

“You think he is connected? To Ainsworth, obviously, but to Wright?”

Holmes nodded slowly, his lids half-closed in a dreamy fashion, his chin jutting forward, pale and sharp. The brush of his thumb over my hand teasing my ache to touch him. He looked beautiful, so beautiful…regal even. Were he mine to hold and kiss…

“It is an inevitable link based on one simple observation.” He opened his eyes for little more than a fraction, watching me for any hint of realisation that never came. “The shoes, Watson, the shoes,” he explained softly.

At once, a faint image appeared in my head. Holmes’s downward gaze in The Elysium, his interest in the floor in Wright’s office, him crouching under the desk next to the body of Horace Ainsworth.

“They are all fashioned the same. Individual design but identical make, a perfect fit every time unlike those the factories produce. The leather is hand-dyed, no machine can create such hues of red and brown, and the stitching is peculiar but unwaveringly concordant across all the shoes we’ve seen. Three rows of stitching, sewing together the welt with the upper part, the insole and the sole.”

How his eye had taken in such small details was baffling.

“And this young man…he, too, wore those shoes? He and no-one else?” I probed.

“Not at the funeral, no.” He hummed, joyful, content. “An invisible prism…for now. Who knows how many more men are involved.”

I attempted to mirror his smile but failed to succeed entirely, for I was not convinced of the goodness of this development.

“Mr. Laghari will be sure to enlighten us about the identity of this last link in the chain,” Holmes continued, rising to his feet and regrettably ceasing his ministrations.

I noticed how he failed to make eye contact, and how could I fault him after the abominable way I had reacted to our client’s name the previous day? Perhaps he endeavoured to spare me further embarrassment, though I could not help but wish that he would never mention, and indeed, see the man in question again.

Holmes walked to my desk to retrieve my scissors, proceeded to cut out the relevant articles from the papers I had found and then hung them up on the little notice board that when unused stood tucked away behind our sitting room door. One by one, he pinned up the pictures and added in chalk the initials of those others involved, while a question mark took the place of the yet unknown man.

Within a few minutes he had created a visual representation of the case so far, moreso for my benefit than his own, and I was grateful as it helped loosen the knot of information in my head.

“But for now, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, drawing the curtain over the notice board, “let us heed my earlier words. We ought to eat and unwind and take pleasure in each other’s company. The following days will see us occupied once more.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intimacy slowly develops between Holmes and Watson.

My dreams were ablaze that night, catapulting me back to war. I revisited the tent that had been my home, the roof over my head; a flimsy protection from the hellfire of bullets. And gunpowder! How it blackened the sky even on bright days! How the smell of explosives hung in the air! It was as though I had awoken from a nightmare, but I was dreaming still. I was staring down at my hands, covered in a fine film of soot and dirt. Blood caked around the edges of my nails. These were not the hands of a doctor but of a villain!

A sob broke loose from my throat and I cradled my head in my arms to stifle the sound. The air was never still here in Afghanistan and I was loath to add any more dreadful noise to the chorus of war. Then a hand found my own, prying it away until I looked into the soft grey eyes of my lover.

Holmes.

Somewhere my mind rebelled against this truth. He had not been there then. But he was there now. Young, so terribly young, younger still than when I had met him. His jawline was as sharp as before, but his whole demeanour had softened. His hair – not slicked back yet – was in disarray and beckoned for my touch. His chest, exposed by a nightshirt much too big, invited my lips to taste and feel and explore. He seemed so vulnerable, so utterly out of place.

“Come here,” he whispered, guiding me into his arms.

He did not offer meaningless sentiments of safety. Even in my dreams he was far too rational for such fallacies. He rubbed my back until the tension fled my bones; lavender, the smell of his skin, soothing me to peace.

“Nobody will share our secret, John,” he muttered into my ear. “Our secret is theirs. They have no reason to betray us.”

He held me until morning, he must have done, for next we emerged from our tent together. Two immaculately dressed soldiers in a field of bones and decay. Faceless men joined us, tall and small, young and old, with crippled limbs forced to function still. Silently we worked alongside one another like blunting instruments left behind.

Worked, what a strange word to disguise the slow progress, the recapturing of land, the many deaths. Time became redundant as one day was like the other. I did not save a single soul. But still we advanced…across fields and into villages that now were ruins.

No life left except for one.

A girl who was playing in midst of the chaos. Skin covered in soot, clothes torn but like an angel she danced here and there on her bare feet, only pausing when she noticed us. Broken shells, arrested by her innocence. I knelt down before her, dry hard earth singing my trousers, and extended my hand like an offering of peace. Her brown eyes took me in curiously and then, at last, her lips curled into a smile so wide I could see her teeth.

Forgiveness blossoming in despair. How I wanted to weep! She taught my tired muscles to mirror her kindness and time stood still as she danced.

The explosion came out of nowhere, it could have been either side. Stifled silence rang in my ears. My hands were covered in a fine film of soot and dirt. Blood caked around the edges of my nails. They carried me back on a stretcher, those faceless men, but they could not erase the crater before my eyes.

“We can’t save your leg, Watson,” a doctor told me. There was no empathy to his tone, no kindness. Still, he seemed vaguely familiar. “You will be sent home to your wife at the earliest convenience.”

My wife, my Mary! How could I have forgotten her?

I sat up with a start, my heart pounding in my chest. And where was Holmes? Frantically, I scoured the tent, pushing myself forward on unstable crutches. Lines and lines of wounded everywhere. No longer faceless but painfully familiar. Bainbridge, Archer, Ainsworth, Laghari. Holmes! Where was he?

The more I passed, the more they whispered until I at last reached the crater. But the little girl was gone, erased, like the rest of the landscape.

Or was she? Could I spot a small figure, after all? Thin, pale, a wisp of a person? I laid my hand on her shoulder and she turned. Light blue eyes offered a melancholy smile.

Helen Wright.

“Don’t worry, John, nobody will share your secret.”

 

“Watson!” I startled upright, my nightshirt a damp rag against my skin.

How often he must have called out to me, I cannot say. My eyes skidded nervously over walls and furniture, unable to settle. Only slowly my brain seemed to grasp that I had awoken in Baker Street, that the terrible scenes I had just lived through had been little more than feverish fantasies.

Carefully, I released a breath which stalled in my chest and shuddered when it left my mouth. Holmes’s face, illuminated gently by candlelight swam into view. He had perched himself on the edge of my bed, his hand on the mattress halfway up to my torso. Perhaps he had endeavoured to shake me awake. His grey eyes were full of concern and his dark hair dishevelled, a testimony to the haste with which he must have abandoned his bed.

Shame brought a blush to my cheeks and I lowered my eyes. “Forgive me, Holmes, for what must have been a very rude awakening. Please go back to sleep, it was nothing but a nightmare.”

He frowned and the skin around his eyes creased and wrinkled. He looked softer in the light of the candle, but thankfully, he was not the young man I had encountered in my dream.

“Bahija?”

He uttered her name with reverence and fool that I was, I could not stop tears springing to my eyes. I should have known that he would not have forgotten her either, Bahija, the little girl who had offered me hope in the midst of the battlefield. Bahija, the little girl who I’d been unable to save and whose name had rung through the house night after night in my first year at Baker Street. The nightmares had plagued me frequently then, freshly returned from combat as I was. It had taken little to shake my nerves, but although we were only newly acquainted, Holmes had tended to me with a courtesy and respect I did not feel I deserved. Thanks to his kindness, the nightmares had lessened eventually and I had fully settled into my life at Baker Street. Now, I couldn’t help but wonder if the stress of the case, the frequent doubts and concerns for our safety had brought them back to the surface. I should have known how the fate of the innocent, the marginalised would move both of us.

“Watson?” he prompted me gently again, my lack of response must have worried him.

“Yes,” I spoke at last. One word that cracked my voice. “I saw it happen again.”

His hand twitched on the mattress, as if he was deliberating whether I needed space or the comfort of his touch.

_She died again, Holmes,_ I wanted to say. _She died and you…you were gone and I could not find you. You left me._

The wall of pain rose in my chest without stopping. It smothered my breath and held an iron grip on my heart so that it thudded feebly against my ribcage. It was that very fear, that ever growing feeling of dread that had overcome me in Switzerland as I had clawed my way back up to those terrible Falls.

“Oh forgive me,” I gasped all the while I shifted so close that my hands cradled the back of his head, bringing our foreheads together.

My body shook under the weight of the tears that rolled down my cheeks, marking his skin like they marked mine. His nose was sharp against the bridge of my own, his forehead firm not soft but the blessed rest I craved. I did not look at him in fear of realising my pitiful state, but let his warm breath wash over my lips in short bursts.

He was warm, warm and alive to my touch. His hair soft as my fingers grasped at the dark strands, cradling him closer still. He had stiffened momentarily but more, I felt, to welcome me in his arms, to be able to hold me and settle me than out of any other negative sentiment. My nearness did not repulse him, and I wept anew.

He held me patiently for what might have been hours, allowed me to stroke and caress and feel him. No touch was denied, yet my mind was in such a state of disarray that I can barely recall the details of that first intimacy.

“Do you suppose you could find sleep now?”

His voice was calm when he finally did speak and I blinked, realising that the first rays of sunlight were stealing in through the window. They illuminated my face and cast his grey eyes in a warmer hue, and I was surprised to find him smiling. Groggily, I nodded, my body exhausted from the excitation of the dream and my brain drunk on the sensations of his closeness.

With gentle care, he moved my arms and cradled me in his now until I was resting comfortably on the mattress once more.

“I won’t leave your side, John. Close your eyes now, my dear boy.”

I chuckled tiredly and closed them, then opened them. Near his temple, a fine streak of grey was running through his hair. I closed my eyes again and smiled.

 

* * *

 

When I awoke the following morning and the cosy haze of sleep gave way to a deep seated ache; I slowly remembered what had transpired overnight. In the bright light of day with only the dissonance of the London traffic for company, I blushed at my own boldness. Without the terror of the nightmare, I would never have contemplated cradling him like so, chests aligned, mouths consuming every breath of the other.

I cannot deny that remembrance brought with it a tingle of excitement that worked its way down my spine, leaving all small hairs raised in its wake. But it also brought shame and confusion. Like one of Holmes’s own compositions, we were only just growing accustomed to this new arrangement. Had my boldness unintentionally altered the pace of our companionship? Were we to lose our rhythm now that I had blindly charged ahead? Oh God, how could I fathom to look at him after I had stroked and caressed him like a lover? How could I ever meet those eyes that read and saw everything?

For quite a while longer I stayed in bed, stranded in my own room, until I finally considered myself suitably calm to meet him. Holmes was already up and about which wasn’t surprising as the hour was advanced by the time I entered our sitting room. He had washed and dressed, the night leaving no traces save for bloodshot eyes. He smiled at me when I entered and engaged me in polite conversation while I ate, all the while pouring over his chemistry set. It was impossible to see if his brain had truly taken him down one of those paths that engaged his immediate curiosity and demanded his attention forthwith, or if he sought to shield me from further embarrassment by remaining busy.

At any rate, I did not question him although I kept speculating as to his motive. I feigned a sudden need in catching up with my writing and medical notes, and stayed occupied thusly until it was time to leave come evening. Holmes was the first to break the silence we had fallen into.

“If we are to interview Mr. Laghari further, Watson, I propose we leave in the next hour or so.”

The thought of venturing back into The Elysium only pierced my conscience gradually. I was reluctant to share him, in truth, and much too tired to be dazzled by the antics of our colourful client. Still, I needed to oblige, for under no circumstances would I permit him to go by himself. I did not trust Laghari, certainly not with the innocence of my friend. It did not take a blackmailer or a villain to endanger our delicate arrangement. If only I knew where his affections lay, then perhaps peace would at last eclipse the doubts and suspicions that clouded our union.

“I shall go and wash up then, Holmes, and meet you back here in time for our departure.”

Closing my notebook that contained little more than rough outlines of past cases, I stood and crossed the room. Upon reaching the door, a thought struck me and I paused and turned.

“What do you suppose I ought to wear, Holmes?”

I thought back to our last visit but could only recall the men we had encountered in the bar above The Elysium. They hardly qualified as the regular clientele and I was loath to afford Laghari the opportunity to tease me.

Pensively, Holmes met my eyes. “Not your tailcoat, Watson. No, that would seem too much. Perhaps a nice suit? Something that suggests you have made an effort but not something that singles you out. We do not want to rouse suspicion.”

I nodded in agreement and left him to himself, returning a little while later in what I hoped to be appropriate clothing. Holmes himself did not look drastically different which pleased me greatly, the only addition being the ring of gold he now wore on his left pinkie. I eyed the two snakes that wound their way up his fine digit with growing unease and finally took a determined step towards the stairs to shake off the dark thoughts that had befallen me.

“Watson?” He bade me to stop and carefully took hold of my hand. “I know you are embarrassed of your conduct last night, but please do not feel uncomfortable on my behalf.”

I felt a blush crawl up my neck and reluctantly turned to look at him. True to his words, his eyes were kind and free of judgement; still, I felt the urge to explain myself.

“I was caught in the terror, Holmes. I thank you for your patience and understanding, but you must know that I am dreadfully sorry for any boundaries I inadvertently disregarded.”

To my surprise he chuckled warmly and patted my hand. “Nonsense, Watson. You make too much of a trifle. Now, let us forget all about it and move on as the good friends we are.”

Although I nodded happily and proceeded downstairs and into a hansom with him, a smile faltered on my lips. Whatever relief I might have felt at his dismissal of my concerns was darkened by his use of “trifle” and “good friends”.

I sat brooding miserably for the entire duration of the ride, producing only a handful of words or curt nods to any of his attempts to engage me in conversation. The night had turned strangely warm and balmy and the stars twinkled down on us freely from a cloudless sky. Still, a dampness hung in the air that held the promise of further rain and so, as we disembarked at Covent Garden, I flicked my collar up against the penetrating chill.

The market around us was still very much alive. Although the vendors had packed up by now, leaving the cobble stones washed clean save for pieces of string and a few discarded flower petals, a great number of people milled about. Beautiful women in long-flowing evening gowns were hurrying towards the opera, accompanied by their dapperly dressed suitors in top hats. Conjurers, fire-eaters and jugglers in colourful robes had carved out their own corners of the market and, right on their heels, were those steadfast bobbies walking their beat, protecting the innocent public from their wandering hands. Music drifted out of the doors of public-houses, jolly, uplifting and memorable. Pianos churned out popular tunes while accordions invited even the shiest of patrons to dance. It seemed as though here the night had only just begun.

Holmes strode with purposeful step towards the red façade of The Elysium, cutting a very fine figure in his suit. He had one arm clamped behind his back and was carrying himself confidently, and why not? After all, he was just another fellow seeking some evening’s entertainment.

The bar of The Elysium was once more overflowing with guests, some of which had taken a noisy stand just outside. Their eyes flickered to us subtly, but there was no doubt on my mind that they had been stationed there on purpose. Laghari had eyes and ears everywhere.

No-one sought to stop us as we pushed our way through the throng and downstairs where Giles Forrester and someone unknown to us sat at the only table, engaged in a game of cards.

“Good evening, gents.”

His greeting was friendly, almost in passing and it was just in time that I remembered to touch my index finger to my forehead. Holmes had already extended his hand in greeting, the golden ring glittering faintly in the dim light of the space.

“The game seems very much skewed in your favour.” He spoke lightly and the burly doorman only laughed.

Lowering his cards, face down, he at last rose to his feet to grant us entry into the club. And a club it had become! No more an empty space, it was filled with men who sat grouped together at round tables, the twilight of candles disguising the rougher nuances of their actions. Music drifted faintly through the air - - guitar, piano, the light whisper of a snare drum. Music designed not to rouse but to soothe, to create an atmosphere of sophisticated enjoyment.

That very same air was mirrored in the clothes of the patrons; no strange disguises, no vulgar displays. Somehow everyone, no matter how exposed or eccentric, had managed to preserve a tasteful image. Already it was different from the experience I’d had just after my return to London where I’d nearly been unable to see for exposed bodies and groping hands.

Holmes’s fingers brushed against my skin, seeking my wrist rather than sleeve. In his eyes I read an endearing uncertainty. He who observed everything and knew so much was at a loss now, humbled by an experience that surpassed that which was comfortable and familiar. He wanted me to lead, and lead I did, though my stomach did a desperate somersault at the prolonged contact of skin against skin.

I navigated a path through the sea of curious men, pretending that I did not notice the appreciative glances they threw after my friend. But of course I noticed, took stock of each and every one of them and made a mental note of their intentions, honourable or otherwise. Jealousy reared its head once more but was silenced by the fierce desire to protect him, he who seemed so innocent and lost in this world. With one gesture, he had entrusted me with his vulnerability and deeply moved, I proceeded. 

“I suspect Laghari will be in his dressing room,” I spoke softly once I had found us a quiet spot in a corner booth. “I know you wish to speak to him, but may I propose we remain here for a while? We are under scrutiny already, best not push it further.”

 I saw him nod, the barest of movements, but his eyes never stopped observing. They flickered here and there, wavered away from lingering glances, desperate to take in and process information.

Perhaps a drink would fortify his nerves, I thought, but I did not wish to abandon him. Heavens only knew what the tide would wash up in my absence. Instead of leaving then, I divested myself of my coat until I sat in my shirtsleeves, as did most men in the establishment. Holmes took note immediately; I could see by the way his eyebrows drew together, but soon he nodded to himself again.

“Any moment now,” he muttered and I shifted closer to hear his words. “The curtain has twitched precisely four times so far. Laghari is there.”

There was an edge to his voice as if he suspected a personal vendetta behind the prolonged wait.

“Allow me to help you out of your coat in the meantime, Holmes.” I spoke quietly, my lips just skirting the shell of his ear. He did not react and I feared I had done nothing to ease his anxiety. “Your discomfort is painfully apparent. I am by your side, my dear boy. Pay them no heed and they soon will find something else to gawk at.”

At length, he permitted me to help him out of his own coat, though I’m afraid it did little to divert the attention of those curious onlookers. And how could I blame them? In his neatly tailored suits, Holmes was the very epitome of a dashing gentleman. In his shirtsleeves, however, he was no less than achingly beautiful. The crisp white blended perfectly with the pallor of his skin and the slightly shortened sleeves only served to accentuate his wonderfully long and slender hands.

But glancing at him, I found him, as always, oblivious to such notions. His shoulders were squared like a soldier descending into the haze of battle and instinctively I reached out to comfort him. Feeling my hand on the small of his back only made him tense at first. But when I stilled, my hand lingering, he eased into the contact, his spine no longer straight and rigid.

I stole glances at him when I thought his attention elsewhere, saw his eyes dance in the light of the candles. If only we weren’t under scrutiny, if only I found the courage to extend my hand in the privacy of our home. But such raw courage existed only in the middle of the night, in the heat of emotion. In the flickering flame of our fireplace my hand would be too starkly illuminated, begging instant justification.

Thankfully, the music altered then, subduing my longing for now as my attention was drawn elsewhere. A hush settled over the audience that made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end, while an accordion carried a long, wistful tune. Holmes straightened to alertness as a dark hand with long nails appeared from behind the curtain.

Hugo Laghari was quite transformed. In a floor-length burgundy gown, cut to the French fashion, he seemed to glide out onto the stage. His cheeks had been rouged, his nails painted while auburn locks tumbled down from the crown of his head. With his slender fingers and elegant movement, it was dreadfully easy to mistake him for a woman. Even his voice had been lowered to those husky, raspy tones one commonly associated with the seductive chanteuses of Paris.

He held the entire room enchanted with songs that were at times dulcet, at times playful or erotic, and even Holmes watched on with parted lips, entirely mesmerised. The air around us had grown thick with tension and the eyes of the onlookers hungry. I wondered, fleetingly, how many feats of observation Holmes was still capable of and felt a stab of envy that Laghari would enthral him so easily.

Soon, however, the mood grew lighter, the tunes more cheerful. It was as if the entire room heaved a sigh of relief. But then Laghari sauntered down from the stage. While Holmes reclined comfortably against my hand, once more, men – young and old – stretched themselves towards our client, like flowers, thirsting for the warming rays of the sun. Shameless, really, the devotion they so openly displayed.

But with all the kindness of a gracious woman, Hugo Laghari tended to them all. Whenever the music allowed it, he whispered tender words to some, caressed the hands of others and even bestowed kisses upon the foreheads of those most fortunate. The more I watched, however, the harder it became not to be moved. As Holmes tended to his Irregulars with patience and warmth, Laghari, too, nourished those souls that had been shunned and driven underground by society. He normalised affection between men and instilled pride even in those souls who had banished themselves to the very edges of the room, not quite belonging, not quite alive.

Mist clung to my lashes before long, so affected was I by the emotion in the room. And suddenly it was Holmes who rested his hand on my knee, comforting and reassuring me. I did not dare meet his eyes, lest he saw how my heart trembled but gave a subtle nod to show him how much I appreciated his gesture.

“Gentlemen, what a pleasure to be welcoming you in my…humble…establishment.”

Laghari’s silky tones bade me look up and I noticed, to my embarrassment, how his eyes clung to Holmes’s hand under the table. Uneasy under the scrutiny of his playfully curious gaze, my friend broke the contact, and I was given yet another reason to be less than fond of our client.

“I do hope you are enjoying yourself?” Laghari smiled sweetly, his long lashes fanning up and down as he blinked.

“There has been much to see.” I spoke at last, my tone not quite praising, but not quite dispassionate either.

“And what you saw, you liked, doctor?” Laghari inquired further, sinking with all the grace of the fair sex upon my lap.

He was lighter than I had anticipated and smelled strongly but not unpleasantly so of perfume. Before I could respond, his arm snaked around my back to steady himself. He was so close now that the hair of his wig tickled my face and I could see the many layers of make-up that were necessary to create so perfect an image.

It would have been a lie to say that I was not affected by it. As ambiguous as my feelings were towards him, even I could not deny that he was terribly handsome. And it had been years since anyone – man or woman – had sat so intimately upon my lap. He was hot, singing my skin through the fabric of my trousers, a perfect amalgamation of male and female.

“Cat got your tongue?”

His amused chuckle brushed over my face and I tensed in realisation of my prolonged silence. I was mortified that Holmes should see me so undone, rattled by flirtation like an innocent youth. I feared what he would make of me now, he who practised restraint at all times and had not once displayed during the years of our friendship any carnal yearnings.

 “Not everyone might take quite so kindly to your advances, Mr. Laghari,” said Holmes pointedly, and I was surprised to find his eyes narrowed to slits. His shoulders were squared – perhaps to defend my honour; my God, I daren’t hope, perhaps he merely wished Laghari’s attention on himself - and his jaw set firmly. “We came here to discuss the case.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” crooned Hugo Laghari with some reproach. “Must you always be so tedious? Can nothing rouse you from your work? Not even the good doctor here?”

I tensed as one long finger slipped through my hair with an airy caress. Though I must confess that my thought processes became rather slowed, I could not help but see myself as a pawn in a powerful game of chess.

“You have hired me,” Holmes replied with a quiet that belied the anger behind his words, “hired me on a rather serious matter. If you wish to dawdle now, I will make my own investigation elsewhere.”

And he rose to his feet, slipping away from the table. His muscles were perfectly tense against the confines of his shirt as he tried to stiffly put on his coat.

Almost completely unmoved, though perhaps subtly ruffled, Laghari hopped up from my lap and smoothed down his dress.

“No sense of humour either, which is a shame for such a handsome fellow.” He was smiling broadly and with a hint of satisfaction that was mirrored by the gleam in his eyes. “We shall reconvene in my dressing room and you can ask away. In the meantime, let these other boys enjoy their night.”

I became acutely aware of the attention we had garnered and even the presence of Giles Forester, and so I directed my gaze to the floor as I silently followed both men.   


 

 “Ask what you must, Mr. Holmes.”

Even though the doors had closed behind us, I could still hear faint music drifting in from the other room. Were the stones thick enough to disguise the noise from the outside world, I wondered, suddenly reminded of the danger we were in. In an odd way, it was a testament to Laghari’s confidence and creativity that I had fallen for this illusion of normalcy we all craved.

“I have two questions.”

Holmes had come to a halt in the middle of the room, his arm rigidly clamped behind his back while our client – feigning ignorance to the tension – had seated himself in front of his mirror, commencing the procedure of removing make-up and wig. With a wave of his long-fingered hand, he beckoned my friend to continue.

“I must have the identity of the man who is making your shoes.”

With a playful grin, Laghari turned to face him, wiggling one heel-clad foot. Even without the wig, he looked enviably feminine.

“Once more, I warn you not to waste my time. You know very well which shoes I speak of.”

For once, the smile slipped from Laghari’s face and something like impatience entered his eyes.

“If I am to betray the security of one of my associates, you must offer sound reason at least, Mr. Holmes. Otherwise you lead me to believe that perhaps your skill has been overestimated.”

And with a little scoff of contempt, he turned back to face the mirror.

“I never share information that has not been fully processed,” replied Holmes with as much courtesy it seemed he could muster. “But I can tell you that it is an important link in a chain of events that connects more victims to our blackmailer than previously thought. It is, therefore, of utmost importance that you divulge what you know.”

Laghari appeared to consider what scarce information he had received, studied my friend carefully through the reflection in the mirror, and then nodded slowly in agreement.

“He is an excellent craftsman. A young Irishman called Sean O’Connell. You will find his workshop on the corner of Weston and Guy Street. But I insist you do not hassle him as you have hassled me tonight. He is gifted and kind, and I assure you I protect my kin, Mr. Holmes. So if I find anything amiss with him, believe me when I say that you have made a formidable opponent.”

Once again, all kindness had vanished from his eyes, and I sensed that this was a man capable of anything if pushed too far.

“You have my word,” vowed Holmes, who surely must also have grasped the seriousness of the situation. “And lastly, I must inquire if you gave this ring to another patron.”

Ainsworth’s signet ring was pulled forth once more and examined a moment later by the probing fingers of our client.

“Fine work, but much too gaudy, dear. I would not have passed this on to anyone.”

Holmes nodded, pocketed it and made to turn when Laghari spoke up again.

“Snakes are not always snakes, Mr. Holmes. I give careful consideration to every token I hand out. Yours was no different. Caduceus, perhaps you have heard about it? A little joke, I’m sure you’ll forgive me.”

An impish grin possessed his face now that was met with a stiffening of the shoulders by my friend.

“I am not your messenger,” he spat, each word uttered with quiet venom. Succinct like a stab intended to wound. And without another glance he departed, leaving me behind for a split second.

“Goodnight, Dr. Watson,” said Laghari softly, his eyes warm once more. “And if ever there is anything more I can help you with…”

I frowned, puzzled but in no mood to linger on that thought.  Instead, I followed Holmes, as I always had done and always would do.

 

* * *

 

Holmes remained cloaked in the same silence I recognised as subdued anger for the duration of our ride home, and I did not dare address him in fear of incurring his wrath. I was ashamed of myself when really I ought to have been relieved that my friend showed little more than contempt towards Laghari. But I could not help myself; I was ashamed of the longing I had displayed, a longing that could not even equal the love and affection I felt for Holmes. I only hoped he would not draw the wrong conclusions. But how could he not, when the evidence had lain so plainly before him? I sighed my woes into the night and remained still, save for the laboured beating of my pained heart.

At Baker Street, we both disembarked together, but I proceeded up the stairs alone while Holmes pressed some coin into the cabbie’s hands. Our flat lay quiet and dark, not even a whisper of sound from our landlady’s lodgings below. For a moment or two, I lingered in our sitting room in which the curtains had been drawn for us and the crockery collected. I loosened my tie and shivered, lost once more in the depth of night.

Behind me, Holmes eventually appeared, closing the door with a soft thud. I heard him pause when he saw me, then his hand fell onto my shoulder.

“Please permit me to play you to sleep, Watson.”

In the darkness, a beat passed between us. He warmed me, all the way to my toes. I could feel him in my bones. Intimacy that numbed the brain.

Slowly, I turned to face him.

“I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere. What did you say?”

His grey eyes travelled the length of my face, quietly assessing. I found a longing in their depth that robbed me of breath.

 “It is selfish of me, I know, my dear boy. But would you permit me to play you to sleep?” Then carefully, agonisingly so. “Please, I need to play you to sleep, John.”

 What my brain still refused to process, my poor heart understood far too easily. It thudded and throbbed against my breast, crying out for attention, begging for a mere morsel of affection.

Unthinking, I slipped my hand into his, permitted him to stray only as far as his violin case before we silently climbed the stairs to my room. While I undressed with no regard to preserving my modesty, Holmes took all precautions, locking doors and drawing curtains and, finally, lighting candles. Then he withdrew his beloved violin and set it down before him with great care.

From my spot on the bed, I watched him apply rosin to the hairs of his bow, his hand gliding up and down with slow but firm strokes. A look passed between us. And as he lifted up the instrument and tucked it safely under his chin, he glowed before me in the warm light. Sharp contours softened, eyes closed, lips parted.

With skilful fingers he coaxed Chopin’s Nocturne out of the violin until the night sang with longing, and I watched on with devotion until my lids grew heavy and I slipped into Morpheus’ arms once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- caduceus is the name of the wand Hermes/Mercury carries - Hugo is using Holmes as a messenger of sorts and Holmes is understandably displeased about it  
> \- yes, Holmes is jealous but Watson fails to notice this  
> \- the piece Holmes plays for Watson is Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C sharp minor


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson visit the shoemaker O'Connell, but it is a letter from Mycroft that pushes the case closer to its conclusion.

Music pursued me in my dreams as light and fleeting as a breeze. It lifted me up gently on waves of exultation, then soothed me down and bade me to rest. When morning came and my senses awakened to the sounds of Baker Street, it was still with a hazy mind that I lifted my head from the pillow.

Holmes had fallen asleep in the chair by my bedside, dressed in his suit with his necktie dangling loosely and his fingers curled around the neck of his beloved violin. I will never succeed in putting into words the relief I felt at finding him there, for even in my sleep I must have already prepared myself for the inevitable discomfort at breakfast. The questions, the doubts. But here he was, vulnerable before me and entirely at peace.

I shifted only as much as was necessary to lie on my side, fearful that any further movement or noise might wake him. No, I did not wish to rouse him just yet, not when there were further moments of unobserved intimacy to be had. It had always given me great pleasure to gaze upon him, but it was rare to be able to do so freely. Holmes was much too alert and had long ago mastered the art of disguising that which he did not wish to be seen.

Now, in the still of my bedroom, I became witness to everything. Each wrinkle that had sprung up on his face over the years, how he puffed out small breaths of air through slightly parted lips. I took comfort in the steady rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his pulse that thrummed in his breast. I counted each dark lash and took stock of the small incisions in his chin and cheeks where he had cut himself shaving. And I saw, really saw, how much this case was affecting him, how much he had exhausted himself in the course of barely a week. I vowed then and there that should it not be brought to a successful conclusion soon, I would prescribe a stern bedrest with no distractions from the outside world, and plenty of good food and drink. Of course, he would never willingly accept such punishment, but I had seen to it before and I would do so again. His stubbornness had never stopped me from fulfilling my duty as his doctor and his friend.

“Really, Watson, it is not polite to stare.”

Though my instinct told me to shrink away, I staid myself. I must remark, however, that I did blush in embarrassment at having been caught. And he hadn’t even opened his eyes yet.

“I was observing you with concern, Holmes. You have been neglecting yourself.”

At last his lids fluttered and he looked at me, grey eyes cloudy with sleep. “A sound observation, Watson, although I feel I must remind you that it is hardly more so than usual. Have you not come to France to fetch me once before? Or travelled to Sussex and Cornwall to join me on enforced convalescence?”

Freeing a hand from my blanket, I held it up as a sign of my defeat and nodded. “Of course, you are right. Perhaps I spoke too hastily. But the truth is…although I may not be the sharpest of fellows, I have always prided myself on noticing changes in your behaviour early, my dear man; that includes any physical symptoms or signs of distress. I feel now that I have been shamefully self-absorbed or else I cannot explain my utter ignorance until this moment.”

“My dear Watson! As always you are much too hard on yourself.” Despite the strictness of his tone, his eyes remained warm and kind. “You are not responsible for my well-being.”

“Am I not?” I challenged, pushing myself up on my elbow, so I could reach out to pat his knee. “Then I must have failed you far more gravely than I’d feared.” Upon seeing my miserable expression, Holmes only chuckled. I proceeded, undeterred. “For more than a decade we have lived together under the same roof now, and I have always endeavoured to tend to your needs. I might not hold medical responsibility as one does for their patient, but Holmes, you have been…you _are_ my closest friend. If I am oblivious to the suffering of my beloved, what good am I then?”

He flushed as he had always done under praise, but still I found it more becoming now as it proved to me that my bold words had not made him uncomfortable. On the contrary. Touched and moved and – dare I say – hopeful, he clasped my hand in his and nodded.

“You are quite right, Watson,” he spoke at last, “though I must still urge you to patience. This has been a trying time for you also that has stirred up many demons. I am humbled that you have permitted me to care for you. So you see, it has never been considered negligence on your part. Negligence! What a silly notion!” He bit out a short laugh and laced his fingers with mine. “We shall not waste another word on it.”

And so we remained in our respective positions, two fools that we were, holding hands like giddy schoolboys. Holmes was right, of course; in this instance, words were no longer necessary.

 

* * *  
  


But time moves on with little regard for the importance one moment might make in the lives of two men, and so the ticking of the clock inevitably reminded us that we could not linger in the safety of my bedroom indefinitely. It was Holmes who drew our attention back to the case and the visit we’d have to pay to the young shoemaker. But his reluctance to depart pleased me greatly and soothed the initial sting of finding myself alone once more, faced with the mundane tasks of washing and dressing.

What pleasure could there possibly be now in the thrill of the chase when he could have lain in my arms instead? What rush of joy that equalled the delight of feeling his skin beneath my own?

But life was never so simple and, in truth, I could not have savoured all of which I have just enclosed whilst knowing that a culprit might still be on the loose, endangering the existence of other men like us. So as I tended to my hygiene, I looked at myself in the mirror and attempted to focus.

Horace Ainsworth, the man identified by Adrian Wright as the blackmailer, had been found dead in his flat. Still, neither Holmes nor myself had been convinced that his passing had been accidental. We did not have the full picture of what had transpired and Holmes wouldn’t rest until he had all answers.

Breakfast was a relatively swift affair, and I was grateful for it as any further time alone with him might have crumbled my resolve and led me down temptation’s path. It was all too easy for us to succumb to those small moments of domestic bliss that had always formed part of our relationship, and on yet another grey autumn day, we could hardly be faulted our desire to linger in the warmth of our rooms with a good book or animated conversation.

But Holmes was a man hot on a scent once more, and before long we were jostling down London’s cobblestone streets.

“It’s rather remarkable, is it not, to think how much time we spend travelling to and fro?” I asked over the sound of hooves clattering and the voices of the masses.

Holmes turned to regard me with a rather impish gleam in his eye. “Somewhat like cattle then, Watson?”

I tried to react aghast, scandalised even, but my face just would not comply. It twitched into a smile on its own accord which nullified my words of reproach within an instant.

“Really, Holmes! We are hardly cattle. We think for ourselves, do we not?”

Holmes hummed to himself, a melodic little note that struggled to pass for the tone of disgruntlement he’d intended. “That’s a rather generous view in light of everything that we’ve come across lately. I am much in agreement with Horaz: _Odi profanum vulgus et arceo_.”

I glanced outside at the world that was drifting past, a world that had become a tiny bit brighter for me overnight.

“Perhaps,” I acknowledged slowly. “I did not mean to suggest that there were none who follow their leaders in blind faith. But the view you’re taking is rather bleak and – you mustn’t look at me like that, Holmes, I know you – not entirely honest. Concerns aside, you, too, are hopeful.”

For a minute or two, he wrestled with a stubborn smile that refused to be subdued and my heart trilled excitedly in my breast. I could quite happily become accustomed to seeing him like this, I thought. If only we did not have to hide our contentment.

“Hopeful I may be, but also sceptical in equal measure, Watson. The world has shown time and time again of what cruelties it is capable of.”

“And of what great feats,” I insisted. “If we succumb to the darkness, Holmes, we are of no use to anyone.”

His eyes regarded me with tenderness for a moment, more he did not dare show here, before he resumed his silent contemplation. The closer we drew to our destination, the more people seemed to mill about. Suits and dresses became more threadbare and simple or were replaced by different attires altogether. Factory chimneys billowed their dark clouds into the sky and voices grew coarser. This was no longer the London of Baker Street, not even that of Bohemian frivolities. This was the London of the people, of hard labour and sweat. I would not describe it as beautiful, but it was true; another shade of our city often eclipsed by the brightness of the hustle and bustle.

Sean O’Connell’s shop was tucked away in a corner of a busy street, forcing Holmes and me to push against the current of people to reach our destination once we had left the hansom behind. Along the way, we were eyed curiously by some, blatantly ignored by others and invited by a handful of confident strangers to look at their wares.

Holmes gave no indication of responding to their requests which left me in charge of fending them off, while his eyes travelled the length of the street, settling pensively on the urchins who were kicking a ball about. With a pat on the arm, I sought to distract his attention and guided him the rest of the way.

The entrance to O’Connell’s workshop was marked by a wooden sign that groaned under the force of the wind as it swayed back and forth. The door stood wide open despite the weather but even the breeze could not hope to disguise the smell of leather that met us the moment we crossed the threshold.

Sean O’Connell did not look much different than he had done at Ainsworth’s funeral, save for the clothes he wore on his body. It was true that he had looked dishevelled then, but now he looked downright dirty with his hands discoloured by dye and his sleeves rolled up. His shock of ginger hair spiked wildly at all angles and his bright green eyes were firmly focused on the task at hand.

“I will be with you in a moment, gentlemen,” he called out to us, finishing what appeared to be a final piece of stitching, with lithe fingers that were already riddled by a number of scars.

“No rush!” Holmes replied in his own blasé fashion and proceeded to examine the shop more closely.

There were shelves upon shelves of shoes, all quite different and unique, but, if Holmes’ keen eye was to be believed, all sporting one identical feature. Gradually, the sounds of tools ceased behind us and, wiping his hands on his trousers, O’Connell came over.

“Now, how can I help?”

The workshop was a dimly lit space, except for the one bright light under which he had been sitting. As he came closer, I registered the exact moment in which a look of recognition marred his features. It was gone in another second; perhaps he had been unable to place us, or perhaps he’d thought it best to feign ignorance. At any rate, I was certain that this slip could not have escaped Holmes. And, indeed, it was not a moment later before he pounced.

“I see that you recognise us from Mr Ainsworth’s funeral. A sad occasion, of course, but at least he received a moving send-off in the circle of his loved ones. I understand he was a rather private man.”

Disquiet returned to O’Connell’s features, not as easily subdued as the first time. It pained me to watch him struggle to speak as he undoubtedly weighed the doubt in his heart against the reason of his mind. After all, we would not have been permitted to attend the service, had we not belonged to Ainsworth’s inner circle. Yet the question remained; how trustworthy was that inner circle really?

“I’m sorry, Mr…?”

“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,” my friend supplied quite readily, knowing that his name would evoke another potent silence of soul-searching, “and this is my intimate friend and colleague Dr. John Watson.”

Mr. Laghari truly had not been mistaken when he had compared him to a peacock. As much as he grumbled and groused about my little stories, he did enjoy the attention and recognition his person garnered him now. Naturally, this was also a subtle tactic of gauging O’Connell’s reaction to his involvement.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes.” The poor fellow swallowed, discomfort colouring every last inch of him. “Well, I still don’t see how I can help you.”

“I have observed that your rather fine craft adorns the feet of several men I have come in contact with over the past week. Ainsworth, for one, Mr. Wright and Mr. Laghari to name but a few others.”

Darkness overshadowed the Irishman’s face and his strong shoulders tensed as though he was bracing himself for an assault.

“We have an agreement amongst ourselves,” he finally admitted begrudgingly. “Without them it would be difficult to maintain my business.”

“Of course,” I hurried to offer sympathetically, “your competitors are directly on your doorstep. Many artisans have been badly affected by the progress of machination.”

He nodded stiffly and his green eyes regarded me coolly still. It was apparent then that he would not be so easily won.

“Could you tell us something about your relationship with Ainsworth?” Holmes interrupted rather impatiently. I could see that his fingertips were itching to thrum an agitated beat against his thigh.

“I mean no offense, gentlemen, but I hardly see how any of my relationships concern you.”

Battle lines drawn, I glanced curiously at Holmes to see how he would proceed now. Although of nearly the same height as O’Connell, the twilight of the workshop gave the illusion that he was peering down his sharp hawk-nose at him, the grey eyes calm and determined as the nervous agitation I had observed before suddenly ceased. Holmes must have understood his apprehension. Indeed, I could not see how he could possibly be oblivious to it. In a world of watchful, judging eyes, an inquisitive busybody was bound to meet resistance.

“You may not believe me, Mr. O’Connell, but I am on your side.” The truth then. I smiled to myself. The truth was all Holmes ever wanted. “I have been engaged by a mutual acquaintance to assist in a case of blackmail.” He spoke in soft, hushed tones that carried the frailty of the content with great care. He did not want to embarrass or expose O’Connell and slowly, this seemed to occur to the man himself. “So I ask again, what can you tell me about your relationship with Ainsworth?”

The tension slowly eased off, though it did not leave the young Irishman’s body entirely. There was a wariness in his eyes that I knew all too well, that must have been familiar to Holmes also and pained him as much as it did me.

“We both served our country…” He trailed off although he’d hardly begun. His eyes turning sadder, more wistful as the mist of remembrance began to swirl within them. “Both of us…odd. He because of his advanced age. Me because of my heritage and youth. He took me under his wing, so to speak. He took many young men under his wing.”

The story he shared was in keeping with the information Adrian Wright had disclosed. Yet it struck me as odd that the tone of their narrative would be so different. Wright had spoken hurriedly, fearfully, even with a note of discomfort and disgust. O’Connell, on the other hand, spoke almost fondly of Ainsworth with a longing that suggested intimacy. Surely, he would not express such sentiments if the man had blackmailed him as he appeared to have blackmailed Wright.

I felt affirmed once more in my belief that the matter had been a personal one between Ainsworth and Wright. Until Holmes asked his next question.

“Were you aware of any blackmail, Mr. O’Connell? Did it concern you at all?”

It was very courageous of him to ask so directly. Perhaps a little foolhardy, too.

“What are you suggesting, Mr. Holmes?” O’Connell questioned.

His tone was one of steel. His right hand furled into a fist. Suddenly the workshop felt too small for the three of us.

“I am not certain that I am suggesting anything,” replied Holmes calmly. “I am trying to understand and offer assistance.”

But O’Connell’s eyes did not soften, nor did his posture relax. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Holmes. But your assistance is no longer required. Everything is quite taken care of.”

Lowering his hand, his fingers gradually unfurling, he wiped them on his stained trousers and receded back to his bench. To my surprise, Holmes’s lips twitched into a would-be smile as he bowed, tipping his hat cordially to the young Irishman.

“Then I shall be taking my leave. But permit me to commend you once more on your craftsmanship and remind you that my doors at Baker Street are always open.” And straightening, he proceeded outside.

I lingered for just another second, feeling as though I ought to add something further.

“He has no right asking questions about Horace,” muttered O’Connell. He must have wanted me to hear it or he would not have spoken at all. “It has all been resolved.”

I nodded politely and hoped my face would convey that I had taken note. Though if there’d been a hidden meaning to his words, I’d failed to grasp it. Holmes was waiting for me in the street, a hansom already at his disposal. When he finally saw me emerge, he smiled good-naturedly and waved me inside.

“Well, I’d say that was rather a waste of our time,” I sighed once I had claimed my seat and he had joined me.

“On the contrary, Watson. Every snippet of information can prove useful in the grand scheme of things.”

“Of course, but I just don’t see how O’Connell has helped us untangle this whole mess.”

Holmes chuckled and for a moment looked as if he was about to squeeze my leg, but then thought better of it.

“This whole mess, as you call it, has already been untangled. I am quite certain who our man is. What I still wish to uncover, however, is why. What grievance – and believe me, it must have been rather substantial – has made him capable of such deplorable deeds.”

“You don’t suppose Ainsworth did it then?” I asked curiously, though it was likely that Holmes would keep quite silent from now on, as not to spoil the grand reveal.

 And indeed, tapping his index finger to the side of his nose, my friend said nothing further and remained looking outside the window, a cheerful tune emanating from his lips.

 

* * *

 

Dissatisfied with being kept in the dark still, I waited until we had claimed back the comfort of Baker Street, and then sought to subtly coax more answers out of him. Ensuring that our door was closed, I seated myself by his side on the sofa. It wasn’t long before I felt the grey eyes drifting towards me, then back again to the book he’d picked up, so obviously feigning ignorance that I nearly chuckled.

 “I must thank you again for your assistance the other night.”

I spoke lightly, carelessly so. His eyes flickered to my face once more. This time searching for clues as to what night I was alluding to. Finding nervousness in his gaze, I decided that this was another path worth exploring later. Especially as he had called himself selfish when he’d suggested to play me to sleep. I did not wish for him to have regrets that were uncalled for.

“You were so obviously troubled by night terrors, how could I not?” Holmes asked at last, reaching the correct conclusion.

I permitted myself to shift closer, the mere fraction of an inch, nervous still that I might frighten him away. Our intimacy had developed so naturally that I was loathe to disrupt it now.

“I did not just dream about Bahija, you must know,” I spoke, choosing my words carefully. Instinctively, Holmes’s leg came to rest against my own, fortifying me in silence. “I dreamed about you too, as though you’d been a soldier serving with me. Ainsworth was there, Laghari and Wright. And after…Bahija died, I could not find you. I searched everywhere.”

To my shame, emotions threatened to overwhelm me. The smell of burned soil singed my lungs. Panic drowned my chest. I could feel my palms growing clammy and automatically pushed my leg further into his, bone meeting bone almost painfully.

“I had deserted you again,” Holmes supplied much to my surprise, and I froze.

There was a truth in his words I could not deny. Yet I wished to remain on even ground with him, rather than plunge down that vast well of desperation, doubt and guilt once more.

“If you are inclined to believe the whispers of theories on dreams put forth by a certain Viennese physician then perhaps, yes, it was a manifestation of my grief. But I did not bring it up for that reason, Holmes, though you can undoubtedly see how much that memory affects me still.”

I caught myself pausing then, holding my breath, as Holmes’s hands found my own, cradling them with gentle care. It lifted my heart to see what kindness, what intimacy he was capable of. I had always been moved deeply by it and I doubted that my wonder would ever cease.

“My search took me back to the place she had died. I do not know what brought me there, perhaps a feeling that I would find you dead instead of her? At any rate, neither proved to be true. Instead, the nearer I drew the easier it was to make out a figure. Small and slender but not a child. I can see that you’re as puzzled as I was, my dear, and you’ll undoubtedly tell me that I’m mad but…it was Helen Wright who appeared before me.”

Surprise widened his eyes in an almost comical fashion before the cool grip of logic bade him to pause. “I dare say, you have become rather occupied with her, Watson.”

Was that a hint of iciness that I detected in his tone?

“But there’s more, don’t tease me now, my dear boy, tell me, go on.”

Both amused by his patience and bashful because of that which I was about to divulge, I cast my eyes down upon our entwined hands and sought to collect myself. “She told me not to worry, that nobody would disclose our secret.”

I met his gaze once more, conjuring up as much calm as I could muster. A shadow passed over Holmes’s face, fear and concern tugging down the corners of his mouth.

“Suppose she knows…” I tried but got no further as hasty footsteps on our stairs announced the imminent arrival of a most unwelcome intrusion.

Our guest appeared to remember his manners just in time, for he stopped dead in his tracks before rapping his knuckles against our door. This awarded us a moment to gain a more appropriate distance from each other, however regrettable.

“Come in!” Holmes called, now positioned in his armchair. The shout was accompanied by one of his usual sweeping gestures, and I allowed my eyes to linger for just a moment than I normally would have.

 “An urgent note for Dr. Watson, Sir!” The boy announced, his cheeks red from exertion.

Although I had no kith or kin apart from the man I called my beloved, the alarm in the messenger’s tone startled me and for a brief instance, sent my thoughts whirling around improbable scenarios. Then my eyes settled enough to take in the note, and the anxiety was replaced by a calm sense of purpose.

“They are desperately short in the wards, Holmes, and have begged for my assistance. Would you be terribly inconvenienced if I went?”

It wasn’t a suitable time, I knew, what with my flimsy explanation regarding Helen Wright’s role in my dream. But my duty of care compelled me to leave nonetheless and Holmes must have known too, for he waved his hand and bade me to go with a smile and the reassurance that he would manage without me in the meantime.

I hastily pressed some coins into the boy’s hand to remunerate him for his services and then hurried upstairs to collect my bag. Coat and gloves were put on just as quickly, but before I departed altogether, I halted in front of our sitting room once more.

“You won’t investigate further without me, will you? It is not that I wish to condemn you to an afternoon of boredom, my dear friend, but out of concern. I believe you when you say you know who our culprit is but feel I must urge you to caution nonetheless. Two pairs of eyes and two pairs of hands are surely more adept at handling so unpredictable a situation.”

He looked amused, I thought, amused and touched by my concern, which worried me as his lust for the chase might very well overrule such sentiment. Regrettably, I could not afford to linger, bade him a brisk farewell and, collecting my hat, abandoned our lodgings.

 

* * *

 

When I returned evening had long fallen, and I was surprised to find a plate of sandwiches and cold cuts waiting for me on the living room table. Holmes had tucked himself away into a corner with his chemistry set, pipette in hand and questionable substances bubbling away in tubes and cylinders. The room was in desperate need of a good airing out, but not even the fumes or the clouds of hot air could deter me from devouring my dinner with ravenous hunger.

I must attribute it to my state of exhaustion, therefore, that quite some time passed before I noticed that Holmes was not lost in just any chemical experiment but one that rather consumed all of his attention. It was only logical then to assume that it had to do with our case.

“Has there been a development?” I asked, washing down remnants of food with some wine. “Holmes?”

He glanced at me briefly, his brows drawn together in contemplation and although his grey eyes came to rest on me I knew that he didn’t quite see me.

“Brother Mycroft sent word in your absence.”

With a haphazard gesture he waved his hand towards the mantelpiece where between knick knacks and stacks of paper pinned down by a dagger I found the note in question.

“The ring contains a secret (PTO for description of mechanism). Accountant informed me there was a will. Urge you to investigate with caution.”

A thrill went through my body so sharply that it manifested itself in a visible tremble. With clumsy, impatient fingers I turned over the note and studied the drawing overleaf. It depicted a signet ring rather similar to Ainsworth’s and a series of steps to unlock the hidden compartment.

“And what did you discover, Holmes?” I asked a little breathlessly, still clutching the note as I proceeded closer.

“Poison,” he said simply in return. “A powder barely soluble in water but very soluble in mixtures of alcohol. When the solution is added to blood, however, one can see that it has a decided coagulable effect.”

My eyes drifted in amazement from Holmes’s bandaged finger to the dish that contained the evidence. “A heart attack.”

“A self-induced heart attack. A desperate act by a dying man who had little to lose. But why?”

In his agitation, my friend sprang to his feet, paying little heed to the vials and tubes that rattled noisily in protest. They had only been a distraction anyhow, something to occupy his fingers with while he waited for my return and mulled over possibilities.

“Would the accountant not disclose what was in that will?”

“He may have had his reservations, Watson. Mycroft would surely have told us more otherwise.”

“Then what can we do?” I asked, clasping his hands, furious excitement passing between us like small electric shocks.

“The only thing possible. We must visit all the men we know are involved until one of them comes forth with the truth. Tomorrow, we shall pay the good doctor a visit.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the Horaz quote translates to: I hate the common masses and avoid them  
> \- I, like Holmes, am not one for words but rather for gestures and actions, and so the "big love confession" will come later


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the identity of the blackmailer is finally revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thanks for reading and leaving kudos!  
> \- tw: drug use

 

After all the excitement regarding Ainsworth’s ring had subsided, I decided that it would be for the best if both of us withdrew to our rooms. I had not forgotten the observations I had made in the early hours of the morning, and I was insistent that Holmes would recover some of his strength before we proceeded. I hoped that without my presence to distract him, and banished to his room as he was, his brain would eventually cease turning over facts and scenarios and permit him to rest.

I was gravely mistaken on both counts, for as I descended to our living room the following morning, I found him on the sofa, almost as if he hadn’t moved at all, clad in his robe, his hair dishevelled. His face was positively ashen, his eyes red and irritated and underlined by purple rings.

For a moment fear seized my heart and I staggered towards him, clumsily grasping for his wrist to measure his pulse. Surely he would not have experimented further with the poison. Surely he couldn’t have been so foolish. But his pulse was calm and regular if also a little sluggish, and he was showing no obvious signs of distress.

“I rather fear you’ll be terribly disappointed in me, my dear fellow.”

Oh, it was a relief to hear him speak! Albeit in a voice that was cracked and brittle.

“As long as you swear to me, Holmes, that this has nothing to do with the blasted poison you unearthed yesterday, everything will be quite alright. Now don’t argue with me but drink this. No, it is not tea. In fact, I will only permit you to have some tea once you’ve consumed two glasses of water. You are parched and in desperate need for hydration.”

Thankfully, Holmes was worn out enough to permit me to fuss over him, quietly sipping the water. After carefully examining his face, I rolled back the sleeves of his robe and night shirt and discovered that to which he had alluded with such shame. His arms were showing fresh puncture wounds and his veins stood out, blue and purple, in stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. He had been sloppy, unforgivably neglectful, and as I collected my bag and tended to him in quiet anger, one question pushed itself further and further to the forefront of my mind.

“Why, Holmes?”

If he told me the case was to blame, I would forbid him from pursuing it further. His habit of using chemical aids had always upset me, for I hated the thought of such a brilliant mind going to waste. And more than that, I feared the lingering effects the substances might have on his heart. Not even purely in the medical sense, I had witnessed far too often how the crippling dependency could morph the characters of even the finest men and would not have tolerated to see Homes succumb to such states. 

“I…” he began then stopped himself, seeking out my eyes for reassurance and somehow, despite my aggravation and concern, I managed to look at him. “Oh Watson you will laugh at me or think me rather foolish. But last night as you bade me to go to sleep, I failed to banish shameful thoughts from my mind.”

I felt my forehead break into a frown but soon realisation struck as Holmes’s face developed a rather deep shade of red. He looked at me as though I had chastised him, then lowered his eyes.

“Of course, I realise that any such considerations are highly disgraceful and unacceptable. And, in fact, it has been years, decades even since I have experienced anything of the like, that I saw no other means to alleviate my distress than to revert to my trusted 7% solution.”

I felt my own cheeks sting with heat as I observed him, my fingers stilling on his arm. Poor man, to look so utterly wretched! And for what? Something so natural? With a soft, exasperated groan, I sank down before him on my knees. A quick glance assured me that we were quite alone behind closed doors and this gave me the courage to clasp his hands.

“You were quite right in assuming that I’d be most disappointed in you, my dear. You know how unkindly I take to your usage of these abominable substances and especially when there was no justification to do so.” I freed one hand to stop him from speaking. “But I am most upset on my own behalf. I ought to have made it clear that you were more than welcome to approach me should you be in need of my company.” I waited until his eyes hesitantly found my own before I proceeded. “Whatever kind of company that may be. I am no longer a young and ignorant man. There are many kinds of intimacies I have known and there is nothing filthy or disgusting about any of them. The only reason I was strict with you last night, my dear, is because I was so desperately worried about your well-being. I should have made that plain and I regret that I didn’t. Had I known you were in need of my company, I would have welcomed you with open arms.”

My hands drifted back to his exposed arms, my thumbs rubbing over his warm flesh in slow, soothing circles. Perhaps, I thought, my caress and tender care would convince him where words could not.

On Holmes’s face a storm of emotions was brewing and he was much too worn to conceal any of them. There was hope and doubt, longing and fear. All mingling, entangling, tugging at his lips, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Now I know we must visit Dr Bainbridge today, but I feel I can only permit you to go when you’ve managed to consume a hearty breakfast and some more water. I will alert Mrs Hudson presently and while she is occupied, I will wash and shave your face to avoid any further incisions. You wouldn’t wish to frighten our dear landlady now, would you?”

His grey eyes glistened when he looked at me and softened at long last when I extended a gentle smile. I hoped it would nourish him enough so that in time he would come to accept his urges as a natural way of being, rather than something despicable that needed to be controlled and suppressed chemically or otherwise.

Holmes remained patiently on the sofa, while I rose to my feet and clambered downstairs to plead with our landlady for an especially generous breakfast. And he stayed there diligently when I returned and for a minute or two pottered around the place, collecting a bowl of warm water and his shaving tackle. Once everything had been spread out on the floor or arranged precariously on the sofa around us, I bathed my hands in the warm water and then began to wash his face.

“How did you keep yourself occupied throughout the night then? I don’t believe I heard your violin.”

I did not like the glassy look in his eyes, because it was an indication that he had slipped – however briefly – into a realm beyond my reach. And how much light there was, or how many shadows danced around him, I could not say.

“I gave more consideration to the case.”

I should have known. I infused the water with his preferred lavender soap and soaked my hands in it once more before scrubbing his face. His skin was a contradiction of soft and rough, blotchy in a few places from lack of sleep, small stubbles of hair bristling against my fingers.

“We must approach this sensibly, Watson,” he continued after a while. I had just towelled his face and gone to fill up another bowl with fresh water. “When one is over-confident, it is too easy to discard important information. I must only mention Norbury to you and I am certain you’ll agree. Therefore, let us not approach Bainbridge with our cards on the table. Let us assume at all times that he may very well hold another puzzle piece that can tilt all our knowledge upside down.”

I chuckled to myself while applying shaving soap along his jawline and chin. “I can assure you that I won’t struggle with that, my dear fellow. I am still in the dark about the whole affair.”

With his head tipped back against the edge of the sofa, he regarded me through hooded eyes. Tiredly, tenderly and with mild amusement. “You give yourself too little credit, I’m sure. At any rate, even if you do not feel you hold the answers, we must both work together carefully if we are to succeed.”

“Wouldn’t it be better then if you did most of the inquiring?” I asked, pressing the blade against the strop to sharpen it.

“That is the most obvious conclusion. But in this instance, I feel your expertise as a physician might be invaluable to us.”

“I’m not following.”

He tilted his head further to permit me to shave nearly one half of his face before he lifted his hand to signal me to stop. “Mr O’Connell was very protective of his privacy and understandably so. It is likely, then, to assume that Dr Bainbridge will treat us with the same wariness. But as physicians you have some common ground at least, Watson. We should begin by discussing Ainsworth’s health with him. You must tell him everything you have observed, and hopefully that ought to reassure him somewhat.”

I considered his words in the silence that followed and gently proceeded to shave the other half of his face. He was undeniably right. If Bainbridge put nearly as much stock in medicine as I did, our mutual passion would pave the way for a smoother introduction. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might inadvertently endanger our mission by disclosing too much or too little.

“You’re not convinced,” Holmes stated.

All clues to that were visibly showing on my face, and I felt my forehead crease into a further frown as I washed his skin anew until it was cleared of every last speck of soap.

“I am,” I replied at last, “I suppose I just wish you could let me further into your confidence.”

I ran my palms over his now smooth cheeks and felt his gaze upon me. His eyebrows twitched into arches of amazement and it dawned on me slowly how intimate the act of shaving could be. I was accustomed to tending to Holmes, to the multitude of scrapes and bruises he inadvertently obtained on his many cases. I was even used to nurturing him through colds or periods of apathy. Perhaps it was unsurprising then that I had tended to his shave with the same practical mind-set. Gazing at him now, however, I saw how young he looked, how hopeful and pained all at once, and I realised how intimate my actions had been. Had I been less intent on his care, I might have noticed sooner how delightfully his stubble burned my palms or how delicate and soft he felt against me. I might even have detected the sigh that rushed from his parted lips or the warmth that smouldered in his eyes.

“Oh my dear fellow,” I muttered, my voice frayed with hoarseness, “I do hope you don’t think me terribly cruel.”

Words felt strange on my tongue, the territory unknown. For all my talk of experience and confidence, I was now as clumsy and shy as he had been, bashful in the face of intimacy. Afraid of my own desires and afraid to push him too far.

“Gentlemen, your breakfast is ready!” called Mrs Hudson at precisely that moment, and I was both frustrated by the disturbance and thankful for the tact that awarded us enough time to prepare ourselves.

And so where words were failing me, I pressed a swift kiss to Holmes’s forehead, a mere brush of lips against skin, and then dissolved in a flurry of activity, as I returned the shaving tools to their original position. I had just enough time to smooth my clothes and procure a respectable air before I opened the door for our landlady who was indeed laden with trays.

Endeavouring to ignore my angrily protesting joints, I helped her as best as I could and soon a feast was set in front of us. There were rashers of meat and thick, fat sausages, scrambled eggs and tomatoes and mushrooms glistening with a sheen of butter.

My eyes drifted to Holmes to see if the heavenly scents had roused his appetite but found him staring into space instead. His eyes had taken on such a glassy, dreamy look that was beginning to unsettle me until I noticed the blush that adorned his smooth, sharp cheeks. All at once remembrance flooded my body. It was as though I only just began to process that I had kissed him, that I could feel my lips tingle from the intimate touch. And, hurriedly, I tore my eyes away.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. You have truly outdone yourself.”

“If asked kindly like you always do, Dr. Watson, I am more than happy to help.” She too then looked at Holmes and opened her mouth as if to say something, thought better of it and shook her head dismissively instead. “I haven’t the nerve this morning,” she muttered to herself and with another smile in my direction, she left us alone.

I can assure you that I do not exaggerate in the least when I say that it took considerable effort to keep a clear head from then on. I knew that I wanted to look after him, that I would refuse to let him pay his visit to Bainbridge until I had assured myself of his physical improvements. In truth, my thoughts were like a swarm of butterflies that flittered here then there on incandescent wings. Curiosity entreating me to compare the softness of his skin to that of his lips. Brashness demanding I urgently explore what other actions would prompt such blush upon his cheeks. It was nigh on impossible to focus on what had to be done, on all those practical considerations I was usually capable of.

But thankfully Holmes was compliant enough to eat in his own time and as morning drifted into noon and noon gave way to a rather splendidly sunny afternoon, he looked much more restored. In fact, he had so much recovered that it wasn’t long before I could feel that old familiar energy emanating from him. The one that bounced and surged and even managed to distract me away from my tasks.

So it was with a sigh that I carefully proposed to him a bit of fresh air to help strengthen his constitution. I confess that I was reluctant to collude with any further exertion on his part but knew that if I kept him cooped up, his mood would soon plummet to the darkest depths. And, indeed, it was with boundless energy that he sprang to his feet and hurried to his room to wash and change, rather like a dog who after days in a cage was finally allowed to run free. As upset as I was by his drug abuse, I could not help but reflect how full my heart felt at the mere sight of him. This man with all his moods and whims kept me alive like no other, who challenged me and cared for me with a kindness many would not have thought him capable of.

“You remember the plan?” he asked when he emerged from his bedroom. He was fully clad in his usual black suit, his hair slicked back and glistening and his nervous hands occupied with straightening his neck tie.

I offered my support in this endeavour while nodding in acknowledgement. “I shall introduce myself with my title and try to strike up conversation about medical matters.”

“Excellent.” Holmes gave a satisfied hum and tipped his head back to let me work. “I would not be surprised if he, like O’Connell, remembered our faces from Ainsworth’s funeral. Should that be the case I daresay it would be best if you admitted to knowing his state of illness and dropped some hints as to your observations.”

I could feel the warmth of his body emanating from beneath his shirt. Watched, in awe, as his Adam’s apple pressed against the confines of his collar as he swallowed. Sensitive now to each and every change in his demeanour.

“Very well.” I nodded, holding his gaze, painfully aware of my cheeks flushing once more. “And you will steer me away from any faux-pas?”

That amused him and as he chuckled I moved my hands over his shoulders as if to brush aside some pieces of lint or dust, doing so, in truth, to take a moment to settle my nerves.

“Of course, my dear fellow. But I can assure you that whatever fears you have of failing me are gravely unfounded.”

To my surprise, he rather bravely took one of my hands in his and lifted it towards his lips to bestow a kiss upon its knuckles. I felt sharply startled to life, acutely aware of every sensation in my body. I felt it overflowing with emotion, my poor heart tapping away exuberantly in my chest. I could smell the lavender soap on his skin, thought to feel even the slightest of exhalations as his breath washed against my now sensitive hand.

“I must say, Holmes,” I began in a voice that did nothing to disguise how his actions had shaken me, “that in your honourable efforts of lifting my spirits, you have been much too thorough and now find me deeply affected.”

The grey eyes that had been observing me with smouldering intensity now grew warm and round, shimmering with fondness.

“And as much as I yearn to linger, I know that you thirst for answers, my dear, so I must propose a hasty departure while I am still somewhat in control of all my faculties.”

Holmes chuckled at that, a quiet little sound too quickly suppressed.

“ _All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen_ ,” he mumbled under his breath, citing of course my own writing which he had often dismissed as terribly romantic. I could see the corners of his mouth twitch, refusing to remain rigid and sober, inadvertently betraying his impish nature which he at times guarded as carefully as his tender heart.

“Are you quite done?” I teased him back softly, freeing my hand from his grasp to caress his cheek.

His Adam’s apple bobbed anew. “Yes, my dear Watson. Let us continue our never-ending quest for answers.”

And had this world been a more generous one, he might have taken my hand as we descended the stairs together. Instead we found ourselves inside yet another hansom that took us across the city with only the barest of contacts of knee against knee.

I had heard Holmes mutter the address to the cabbie. “Did your Irregulars discover Bainbridge’s whereabouts?”

“Yes, they’re terribly efficient,” he replied, fumbling with his cane. It was odd to see his nerves so agitated all of a sudden.

“I do not care to see you quite so unsettled. Does it concern you that his office is not located on or around Harley Street as one would expect of a practitioner who was granted so notable a promotion?”

His index finger had started tapping a steady beat upon the head of his cane. “Oh, I am no longer certain, Watson. There is a queer sense upon me that misery is lurking around the corner.” And he shivered, as though physically affected. “There is no need to be peering into my eyes, my dear boy. I can assure you that the effects of the solution have sufficiently worn off. But I fear…” He paused, casting a sidelong glance out of the window where the glorious sunshine had loosened a few buttons or brought out some smiles that the previously muddy weather had successfully suppressed. “I fear I should have reminded you to bring your service revolver.”

“It is resting in my coat pocket as we speak, Holmes. Does that steady your nerves? Yes, that’s a good fellow. I saw it lying in our drawer and thought I’d take it along. Being without it at The Elysium had made me rather uneasy, you see. I do feel much better for having it now.”  

That seemed to soothe his restless mind, if only a little. His posture slackened but his fingers continued to assault the head of his cane in rhythm with the beating of the hooves on the ground below us. And they remained the only sounds to accompany us for the rest of the journey.

Dr. Bainbridge’s practice was located within a surprisingly grand building of Regency architecture that seemed rather out of place in this street of crooked and rundown looking houses. Holmes paid our driver and disembarked and then stood quite rigidly between the two white columns that marked the entrance. A gold sign confirmed that we had come to the correct address.

I wished to extend words of comfort and reassurance to him but decided that perhaps silence and my company would be the best remedies to a nervous mind. At any rate, it was rather probable that he was occupied with some minor detail that had not yet captured my attention and would be irritated by any distractions.

Slowly and after much deliberation, he hung his cane into the crook of his right arm and then lifted his hand to employ the knocker. The sound echoed eerily behind the door as though the hallway beyond was hollowed out completely.

Perhaps it was the empathy I felt for Holmes’s condition or perhaps it was my very own intuition, but I was suddenly gripped by a sense of impending doom so strong that it surely rivalled that of my friend. The revolver, once cool and reassuring now felt hot and heavy against my breast. A weapon I no longer wished to yield as images from my nightmare flickered before my eyes. A crater and around it nothing but destruction. Wounded men and Holmes nowhere to be found.

The images were so vivid that I only registered the man when he had opened the door for us. He was tall and slim with deathly pale--and in certain spots yellow-tinted--skin that seemed feeble like parchment. His hands were shoved deep into his trouser pockets, and with his crown of receding silver hair he looked much like a vulture looming before us, rocking back on his heels. I could not help but think that he was decaying before our very eyes, which was the only explanation I could find for the nauseating sensation that was growing in and tilting my stomach.

“Yes?” His tone was sharp but not gruff, unfurling from within his body like the hiss of a snake.

“Dr. William Bainbridge?” Holmes inquired politely.

Perhaps the man sensed business for his beady eyes narrowed into slits as they passed over us and an indulgent smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “The very same, gentlemen. Why don’t we step into my office?”

Delighted at the invitation Holmes offered me a mere twitch of the lips, then put his hand on my back so I would follow Bainbridge first.

The practice which we entered was one of the quaintest I had ever seen. Everything appeared neat and clean, albeit sparsely furnished and the gas which wasn’t turned up bright cast it all in a strange, dim light. Many things were thrown together as if by chance, juxtaposing his fine appearance and air of superiority. I did not know what to make of him, yet I could not shake the feeling that the good doctor had somehow gone astray.

“Dr. Bainbridge, let us not dawdle. I am certain you remember us from Mr. Ainsworth’s funeral earlier this week and as a medical man himself, my friend and colleague here, Dr. Watson, had some questions that he thought perhaps you might be able to answer.”

Surprise washed over his ashen face and I noticed a decided tremor of the hands as he bade us to sit.

“I am not certain that I’ll be of much assistance, Dr. Watson. Is it not kinder to leave the dead to rest in peace?” His dark eyes struggled to settle and drifted nervously from my companion to me and then back towards the window.

“I do beg your forgiveness if we led you to believe that we wanted to disturb his rest. I was an army surgeon, Dr. Bainbridge, and have seen many a great man – and all of them too young – perish in the cruellest of ways. I do firmly believe that their memory, and indeed the memory of all suffering men, should be honoured.”

His eyes flickered to my face once more, skimming restlessly over my features, unwilling or unable to focus.

“The reason why I’m here is that his death came as such a shock. Of course we knew that he was ill but…to pass away so quickly?”

He was narrowing his eyes at me now and examining me with such suspicion that I feared I had made a dreadful blunder after all. But a glance at Holmes filled me with reassurance, for he’d remained calmly in his seat, fingers steepled above his abdomen and his eyes peacefully closed.

“There were few men who knew of Ainsworth’s illness. But you were an army man, you say.”

“Indeed I was, Sir. 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I was wounded myself at the battle of Maiwand.”

I shifted my leg from under the table and patted my thigh. Though if he truly had a medical eye, he would have noticed my limp already.

“Then perhaps you do understand why his illness wasn’t well known. Forgive my suspicion.”

Next to me, Holmes emitted a curious little hum while I, for my part, still felt rather helpless in steering the course of this conversation. I had not anticipated that Dr. Bainbridge might allude to any such queer notions, not when Sean O’Connell had been so intent on preserving Ainsworth’s image. Though perhaps, I thought, that familiar glassy look in his eyes was to blame for the openness with which he had spoken, which others may have called reckless.

“Your suspicion was warranted, I’m sure. It’s a delicate subject to broach these days. But it is true that I have seen many illnesses during the war, some of them quite novel and yet unexplained back then.”

Bainbridge plunged into a peculiar little pause in which he did little more than staring blankly out of the window while his fingertips brushed over shirtsleeves and cuffs, seeking to straighten what could not be. “Of course, these are all assumptions. I wasn’t the treating physician, I only knew of his…concerns, as well as his prognosis.”

“It was a heart attack in the end which I believe was in keeping with the diagnosis.”

Suddenly his eyes snapped to me, wide and very nearly filled with a kind of manic madness. “How do you know that?”

All at once my throat ran dry while my heartbeat accelerated in my breast. Yet Holmes gave no indication of error or failure. With my heart still thundering away, I urged myself to calm, considered carefully and rationally that my statement had not been so irregular. I could have mentioned the funeral once more, reminded him that the cause of death was well known but instead I chose what I felt to be right. Honesty.

“I happened to be the examining physician on the day of his death.” My voice was laced with gentleness, for I felt as though I was handling something rather fragile indeed. “And each of my observations led me to conclude that he had died of heart failure. Still, I feel he passed too soon before his time. As a medical man yourself, could you think of any other reasons for his condition to have deteriorated so rapidly?”

Dr. Bainbridge fell silent once more, this time fiddling with his golden cufflinks which looked dull in the faint light of the gas and bore considerable scratch-marks.

“I suppose stress could exacerbate it…” he offered after a while.

There was a quiet intentness about him now that made my forehead draw into a frown. I could not make sense of it, of this whole affair. If Ainsworth had been the blackmailer, why would he take his own life and why would O’Connell and Bainbridge speak of him with fondness or at the very least respectful consideration?

Desperately, I glanced at Holmes for guidance, longing to catch a glimpse of that secret information he insisted on keeping locked up in his brain. His eyes were open now and directed towards the doctor, the serene look on his face remained unchanged. But his fingers! His fingers were occupied twisting and turning that golden signet ring that had offered up answers the previous night, spinning and moving it in a near-perfect replication of Bainbridge’s own movements.

And what a startling effect this gesture had on the man himself! His already widened eyes appeared to be bulging out of their sockets now and with an air of red hot energy, he jumped out of his chair and started to pace through the room.

Next to me, Holmes slowly unfurled his limbs and sat up straighter, watching Bainbridge with all the intensity his grey eyes could muster, his sharp chin cupped between thumb and index finger.

“It can’t be right…” Bainbridge was muttering to himself, his nervous hands jerking up by their own accord. He had the very air of a man possessed, striding to an fro, the heels of his hand-crafted shoes digging ever deeper into the carpet. “He didn’t know. Ainsworth had the ring commissioned long before our time. He consulted _me_ on the matter of the alkaloid…not him.”

I looked at Holmes again, but my friend sat by my side enraptured, as though witnessing a stupendous performance.

“No, he didn’t know. It can’t be right.”

More and more conviction entered Bainbridge’s tone now where it met with fear and agitation. His pulse was throbbing angrily in his neck, colouring his face in deepening hues of red. The closer I watched, the more the dreadful certainty blossomed in my chest that Bainbridge was no longer aware of our presence in the room. That we were staring at a man driven to madness by a horrifying mixture of terror and chemicals.

“He couldn’t know,” he whispered one last time to himself, wiping his hands on his trousers. “You’re safe.”

The sight before us struck such fear into my heart that I refused to sit by helplessly for another minute, and made to stand up when Holmes’s arm caught me firmly around the middle and pushed me back down into my chair. His features were filled with a stormy determination that was almost unsettling. He only removed his arm when he had assured himself that I would not be tempted into any further rash action, then leaned forward to address the doctor.

“What do you mean it can’t be right?” His grey eyes glistened with feverish intent, and I found myself holding my breath as the scene unfolded in front of me.

“Well, it can’t have been Adrian,” Bainbridge responded dully, staring blankly ahead. “He didn’t know about the ring.” A prolonged silence punctuated his explanation, followed by a gasp of dismay that made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. “My God! Ainsworth…the will…” And as quickly as the blood had been pumped to his face, as quickly it drained again, leaving behind the sickening pallor I had previously remarked upon.

“Holmes!” I shouted desperately, jumping to my feet. “The man is going to faint!”

It was a miracle that I reached him in time and managed to support his weight as his knees buckled, or otherwise he might have done himself a serious injury. Together with Holmes we manoeuvred the trembling man to a chair where my medical nature put the situation now in my hands.

“How do you feel Dr. Bainbridge? Can you hear me?” His pulse was fluttering agitatedly under my fingers. His skin was covered in a sheen of cold sweat. “Holmes, fetch me a cool compress and some smelling salts. That’ll bring him to.”

His lids refused to cooperate and as I pried them open to peer into his eyes, I took stock of the dilated state of his pupils. Some minutes passed before his pulse calmed itself; Holmes remained kneeling in front of him all the while, holding the compress to his forehead. His concern was less for the wretched man, as I was about to discover, as for the answers he longed to find. For at the first sign of life, he pounced on him like a hawk.

“Why would he do it, Dr. Bainbridge? What reason did Adrian Wright have to blackmail you? What was your history?”

But the poor man only groaned and retched and shivered, all speech permanently banned from his faculties.

“Oh, it is no use,” grumbled Holmes by my side. “He has said too much already.”

 I cast a dark look at him and bade him to consider the magnitude of the situation, but he only broke into a stubborn frown and rose to his feet.

“We must go now, Watson. You know I honour your professional dedication, but Dr. Bainbridge will be fine…for now. I cannot guarantee as much for his future – I fear he has rather more misdemeanours to his name than those we have witnessed today – but we can ensure that Ainsworth’s sacrifice was not in vain.”

I felt myself blinking against the onslaught of information as though that simple action would be enough to clear my head. But instead it sent the words tumbling around, bashing against my skull with sickening force.

I knew what I had heard. That Adrian Wright had been the culprit all along, rather than the client we were tasked to defend. That Horace Ainsworth had taken his own life, knowing that it was nearing its end anyhow, to set off a will which…which what? What was in that will?

As I followed Holmes back outside and down the street while he frantically attempted to hail us a cab, I felt suddenly sickened by this web of intrigue in which we had become entangled.

“Come, Watson, come!” Holmes shouted once again and ushered me into the hansom he’d so painstakingly acquired.

We had not driven a few hundred yards, however, when he beckoned the driver to stop again and leaned his slender body out of the window. A sharp whistle brought a young boy with dirt-flecked cheeks running towards us and within a second, a shining sovereign had found its way into his palm.

“Deliver this message to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard: Sherlock Holmes asks him to acquire the will of one Horace Ainsworth. The original document must be brought into our possession and dispatched to Baker Street. Explanations will be provided at the earliest convenience. Do you understand all that? Yes, there’s a good lad. Now run and be quick.”

With a puff of exhaustion, he sank back into his seat and I observed that his hands, too, were shaking.

“Now let us hope we make good speed,” he said after a while in a voice that was husky with emotion, “there is one more visit we must pay before we confront Mr. Wright himself.”

I was no fool, I knew we were headed to see Peter Archer, the last member of the invisible prism. The case would only be fully solved when Holmes had collected all the answers. Still, I hoped desperately that we wouldn’t be too late, for Adrian Wright could be capable of anything now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case is quite finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- epilogue still to come - thank you for reading!  
> \- tw: death, tw: biphobia

To the clatter of the hooves, my brain was working noisily while my heart seemed determined to beat out of my chest. It was a feeling akin to being a soldier again, I reflected distractedly. The same thumping of energy, the same cold feeling of dread that coated my skin in perspiration.

By my side, Holmes resembled a bloodhound. No longer slumped in his seat, he had placed his elbows on his thighs and was leaning forward with such dark determination on his face that I thought to feel him urge on our hansom, to hear the thoughts racing around in his head. I envied him the latter, for my own skull was reverberating with a dull kind of pain that hindered me entirely from unravelling the knots of information contained within.

“I felt it was odd…” I only realised that I had spoken when I sensed Holmes’s eyes upon me. A raise of the eyebrow prompted me to proceed. “When we spoke to Mr. O’Connell, he spoke so respectfully of Ainsworth. In fact, it was after you’d left, he said “He has no right asking questions about Horace. It has all been resolved”. And I thought even then, how peculiar that he should refer to him by his first name when he had caused many men such grief. Though I suppose O’Connell could have been in on it.” I frowned, paused and then carefully continued. “But I felt that he was a solid, decent sort of fellow. Then there was the matter of your brother who had also vouched for Ainsworth’s nature. I should have realised it then and there, Holmes. How blind I have been! There was ever only one who spoke of the man in distaste and yet…”

Holmes’s brows smoothed, though his expression remained grim as he nodded. “Yes…and yet from everything we have observed, he appeared rather respectable. Of course, appearances can be deceptive. Take Dr. Bainbridge, for example, a successful physician who likes to over-indulge in his own medicine. Perhaps to manage the caseload that developed after his esteemed promotion. I would not be surprised if this habit also affected his ability to practise. You will have noticed his cufflinks, of course, scratched and dulled after years of pawning. Yet this is not a naturally poor man but one who has slipped into financial ruin because of his dependency. I am convinced that Wright was well aware of that, as was he of any further transgression. A man possessed with vengeance will pool any and all information to use to his advantage.”

For a moment or two he disappeared into his own thoughts, his eyes growing vacant. “And what about our friend Archer whom we are yet to meet? He has a history of violence, that much is apparent from the picture we’ve seen. Bruised knuckles, a broken nose, bulging, blood-shot eyes that speak of his temperament. No no, I feel we are about to meet a nasty fellow. But Ainsworth chose to protect them all, for I am certain that’s what O’Connell was referring to when he told you that everything was resolved. No matter how far they’d gone astray, Ainsworth strikes me as the sort of man whose loyalty compels him to shield all or none. Which begs the question of the motive. What happened once they all returned from war? Yes, Watson, I am convinced it transpired after, not during the war – there is enough evidence to support that claim and I’ll be happy to indulge you at a future point. What atrocious act binds these men together that Wright would feel forced to destroy their lives?”

Once more, the wraith-like figure of Helen Wright overtook my mind and I felt my heart ache in a sudden bout of commiseration.

“You don’t suppose they would have harmed his wife?” I questioned and watched as Holmes’s dark brows knitted together.

 “I wouldn’t think so, Watson. Out of all the men, it’s only Archer who strikes me as the volatile sort. And what would they have gained?”

“Human nature mustn’t always be driven by gain,” I mused quietly to myself.

My friend tutted and gave a dismissive shake of the head. “Of course it must be. What else would allow reason to be overruled so callously on many occasions if not the deceptive promise of gain?”

He could procure the most compelling arguments if he wanted to, and yet I felt in this instance that I could not entirely agree. For surely the human soul was capable of subtler motivation than sheer, blunt gain. Surely there were such forces that moved and affected us for which there was no simple explanation.

Plunged into silence once more, the journey across London appeared endless. Where I had enjoyed a rare glimpse of the sun a few days prior, I now found myself irked by its incessant joyfulness, as well as the hoard of people it brought out which only further slowed down our progress. In my heart, I yearned for storm clouds and lashings of rain. At least they would have been much more suited to my mood. Perhaps, I reflected with a brief glance at my companion, I was beginning to develop a similar flair for the dramatic.

The sight of the Newgate Prison walls, however, was fearsome enough to rival any tempest I may have envisioned. Newgate Prison was, in fact, a fortress and one renowned since medieval times for its ruthless and oftentimes cruel guards, as well as its shocking hierarchy of power in the prisoners themselves. Akin to the dynamics amongst soldiers at war, the prison was its own society where hard labour was exploited for cheap remuneration, and connection and influence were the most precious currency of them all. I could only shudder to imagine what kind of pleasure a man such as Archer – for Holmes had painted a rather grim picture indeed - would take from his work there. After all, public executions celebrated just outside the prison had only been abolished 27 years ago and the gallows loomed ominously now before us in this courtyard, a reminder of bloodthirst and spectacle.

My companion, on the other hand seemed as unshakable as ever. Possessed by his thirst for knowledge, he ploughed on past the main gates and out into the quadrangle, ignoring the angry shouts from the watchman on duty.

I hurried along as fast as I could, my attention drawn here then there, acutely aware of all the eyes that were following us. Men of all ages stood grouped together or alone, their grubby clothes clinging nearly threadbare to their bodies as they tended by the sweat of their brows to the tasks they had been given. The threat of danger ever-present around us was prompting my hairs to stand on end and it was with a desperate and sharp exhalation of air that I came to a standstill when a burly-looking guard stepped in our way. His cap was tugged deep over his eyes to shield them from the sun and amidst the grime and the dirt, the stench of urine and sweaty woollen garments, his finely polished shoes and pristinely pressed uniform had something utterly revolting.

“This is a prison, not a fun fair. Who the devil are you?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” answered my friend with surprising calm, although his eyes, too, were flickering hither and thither, skimming over the faces of those wretched souls forced to graft in this weather.

Some of them might very well have deserved their sentence, although I could not help but consider those who had been unjustly convicted. Men like us, betrayed by neighbours and friends, forced now to humiliation and labour while the symbol of perverseness remained forever brand-marked to their chest.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” the guard questioned, gruff laughter scratching his throat like sandpaper.

It was a provocation and a clumsy one at that. The sudden rise of his thick, bushy eyebrows, if not common sense alone, had informed me that he was, in fact, familiar with Holmes.

“You asked who I was, Sir, and I gave you an answer. Now I really must proceed.”

With his sharp features schooled to a confident expression that may easily have been mistaken for arrogance, my friend sought to push on but was caught by the elbow and roughly held in place. A murmur passed through the crowd of spectating prisoners and, instantly, I took a step closer.

“Even you will need a permit to speak to the prisoners, Mr. Holmes,” sneered the nameless guard, his eyes narrowed to poisonous slits.

Holmes’s hand clenched and unclenched around the head of his cane before his mouth broke wide into a galling smile. “It is not a prisoner I am here to see but one of your own. A man called Peter Archer. Oh no, I can assure you he will want to see me too. Just tell him it’s about the Wright business.”

And adjusting the cane, he pried his elbow loose and retraced his steps until he came to a standstill nearer to the gates once more. The invitation was to join him, I knew, but I found that my legs would not cooperate until the brute had turned his back to us and disappeared into the northernmost building in which the guards undoubtedly had their quarters.

“We must be careful, Holmes,” I urged, releasing a nervous breath before reaching back to wipe away perspiration that was clinging to the base of my neck.

Holmes would not meet my eye and I wondered if it was owed to the anticipation that was holding his entire body coiled or whether he feared to reveal something rather tender that would be squashed and choked of life amidst this bleakness that surrounded us. Still, it left me smarting to be slighted by him, especially in such a situation where his reassurance would have been a great comfort.

Peter Archer was every bit the reprobate that Holmes had described. Where both Bainbridge and O’Connell had been possessed by a nervous energy and even Hugo Laghari had demonstrated some understanding of the seriousness of the situation, Archer appeared unnervingly collected. With a smug expression on his roughly cut face, he strode towards us. His uniform was creased and shabbily buttoned up, revealing a very prominent Adam’s apple and some of his throat, both of which were covered in a dark stubble that could also be found on his cheeks.

“How can I help you then guv’nor?” he asked, swiping his hat off to rub his scalp with one of his sleeves. His hair had been neatly trimmed down.

“I’d like a word in private,” Holmes replied evenly, making a sweeping motion with his right arm that beckoned him to follow into one of the many corridors that forked from the main quadrangle.

Archer cast a broad grin over his shoulder at the other guard, revealing a set of yellowing teeth, then swaggered into motion. Reluctance to join him overcame me with sudden force, so repulsed was I to be anywhere near a man whose very person oozed with cruelty. But the notion of leaving Holmes alone with him filled me with even greater discomfort, and so I stalked after them into the narrow, suffocating corridor of pale stone where only shadow pervaded and light perished.

We were sheltered now from the prying eyes of the prisoners, guards and watchmen while they were revealed to us still through small gaps in the walls. To the left the men tending to their chores, to the right women and children. I tried tearing my eyes away but found I couldn’t, not when there was inhumanity and neglect wherever I looked.

“I take it you’re involved in Adrian’s little scheme,” Archer began at last and I could feel his gaze on me and my companion, slick with self-congratulatory insight.

He presumed to know us then, had the audacity to think that all that we were – our struggles and hardships, our affection and tenderness – could be reduced to one carnal act. I bristled angrily and made to step towards him when Holmes’s grey eyes flickered to me and held me arrested. The warning was a gentle but poignant one. My rage would only make us look guilty of something we had not yet committed and Newgate Prison, with its own twisted rules and laws, was hardly the place to come undone.

“I have been tasked with resolving the matter,” my friend admitted with enviable calm, as though the words had not irked him, as though we were not pressed for time. “I believe you were a victim of his blackmail too.”

“Victim?” Archer emitted a snort of a laugh and proceeded with disturbing serenity to fish a bundle of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his uniform. “I suppose he’d like that. But just between the three of us, I am what I am, Mr. Holmes.” He paused and shrugged and struck a match against the wall to ignite it, guiding the budding flame to the cigarette that protruded from his thick lips. “And I can live with myself moreso than he. Treacherous bastard.” Here he laughed anew and I noticed how Holmes’s face broke into a frown in synchronicity with my own. “Though I have to say that it amused me when his first little note arrived. Surprised me then, he did. I had never expected little prim Adrian to grow some balls.” He sucked impatiently at his cigarette and belched the grey, odorous smoke out into the air. “Although ‘pon careful consideration, an act like that doesn’t require much courage. But it was entertaining nonetheless. Guess he thought he could finally win the upper hand, get his own back. Shame only that I make my own luck…even now there’s a will that gives me all the financial means I need. It’s quite good that, int’it? But I expect he’ll want more and more. Doesn’t mean shit to me. If I go down, I go down. Better that than being a bloody coward like ‘im.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Holmes inquired and I could hear now how his voice strained for composure. Lodged tight within his body, he had to press out the words with quiet intensity, colouring his tone in a darker hue.

“Come on now, Mr. Holmes. No games. You must have met his prissy little wife. The slice of pie he got himself after we returned from war so he could masquerade under the banner of normalcy while he’d stuck himself into every wiggling arse he could before. Suddenly he was better than us, Adrian was. All tidy with his business and his little missus.”

“And what did you do?” Holmes’s tone had dropped dangerously low, and in his eyes, too, there lay an unspoken threat.

“What do you think?” Archer questioned, exhaling another rush of smoke, the smell of cheap tobacco sickening to my nostrils. “Had to tell the poor lassy the truth, hadn’t we? Suppose we ought to have been grateful that Adrian deemed us acceptable enough to invite us to his wedding. And when the drink flows and your tongue loosens…well, you know ‘ow it is. There’s no saying what comes slipping out.”

They had ruined him, I thought, anger rising like bile from my stomach. Ainsworth, O’Connell, Bainbridge and Archer, his comrades in arms had all banded together to ruin him. Out of spite? Out of ignorance? I could not find it within me to excuse their behaviour. And poor Helen Wright, I thought, to be confronted so crudely with information that was only half the truth.

“Did it not occur to you that Mr. Wright loved his wife in earnest and that his love for her did not tarnish or diminish the relations you had seen him have before?”

Holmes’s eyes flickered to me once more, his shoulders tensing like fortress walls on either side of him. But I found I could not suppress the fury that was causing my hands to shake. In his carelessness, Archer had struck a nerve and a raw one at that. For I was not so different from Wright. I who had returned from the war with tender and terrible experiences alike, newly awakened. I who had found myself an outcast in London’s clubs, shunned and forced into hiding by one, mocked and teased by the other. I who loved Holmes as affectionately as I had loved my dear Mary.

“I have no time for cowards, guv’nor. You’re either like us or like them. You don’t get to pick and choose whenever it’s convenient.”

Here, he turned back to regard my friend who stood quite frozen, utterly devoid of that restless energy now that he had acquired the last shreds of information he had hungered for.

“Just a shame Adrian took to it so badly and decided to play that little game. Guess it’ll teach him to be so greedy next-“

My fist collided with his jaw before he could utter another despicable word, the pain that shot through my knuckles momentarily soothed by the sweet triumph of having rendered him speechless. I knew within an instant that I should not have lost my temper but after all the heartbreak I had witnessed, my self-control had slipped through my fingers like a feeble thread. Helen Wright’s hollow eyes haunted me.

“Come, Watson, we have everything we came for.”

I barely felt Holmes’s hand on my arm, my eyes locked onto Archer who chuckled and spat blood on the stones at our feet, heart thundering in my chest. My legs which were quivering and somehow heavy like lead only slowly complied with walking. One step, then two. My gaze now fixed firmly upon a spot between Holmes’s shoulder blades. Behind us Archer’s heavy breathing filled the corridor. Annoyingly persistent.

Whispers of repercussions suddenly started to flood my head, clogging my skull which was still ringing with the force of my anger. I could not process any of it, only trudging like a chastised dog after my friend.

I was faintly aware of him directing the cabbie towards Clairmont House and as though through a thick mist I could feel my knuckles stinging.

“Forgive me, Holmes, I don’t know what came over me.”

As the aggravation fled my body, I was left with nothing but weariness that seemed to sleep nestled in my bones. It was as though I could feel all the weight of my forty-three years on this earth. High time I stopped acting like the temperamental young man I had once been. And yet…I had never been able to stand idly by while injustice was being committed and I felt that, surely, Holmes was bound to understand that.

“It appears your instincts were right, Watson. Your intuition for the female psyche really is most astute.”

He was regarding me without seeing me, I felt. And I did not like the tone of voice with which he addressed me. It was too cool, too detached for the man whose heart I knew so well.

“It was the sense of tragedy that had befallen the house. I could not hope to shake it, though I assure you, it wasn’t for want of trying.”

His fingers were performing a curious ballet on the head of his cane, stretching here, then there without ever finding the right pose. “No, I suppose not…”

Could he still see me, I wondered. Or had I disappointed him so gravely?

“Do you believe that Wright loved her?”

It was a peculiar question out of Holmes’s mouth. He had solved the case, he had acquired the motive and knew the perpetrator. Why occupy himself with that?

“I am certain of it. I could see it in his eyes. They ruined him, Holmes, him and the happiness he had found after the war. Because they were angry-“

“Because society made them so.” Stubbornly, a frown parting his forehead.

“Or because they failed to understand the nature of their comrade.”

A cab was not an appropriate place to have this discussion. Yet here we were, barrelling towards the inevitable. My blood still too hot in my veins to stop us.

“It is a peculiar thing, is it not? To love both equally when both are so different?”

I perceived the hidden question very well yet turned my face from it in distaste. I did not wish to hear of his doubts, nor did I welcome his careful attempts at understanding. Not when my wound was so fresh, so raw. I felt tired and old and lost, yearning merely to belong, to be embraced fully and for everything that I was. Accepting that Holmes might fail me in this regard was too painful and not conducive to the situation.

So we remained enveloped in a silence that filled the small compartment with a thick and heavy atmosphere. The blue sky outside seemed to be mocking us. I felt his furtive, apologetic glances on my face on several occasions but could not bring myself to return them or indeed to speak until we were driving through the hills of Greenwich.

“It made no difference to me, Holmes. And I refuse to dissect and divide my affection. It cannot be measured…it never could. She was no less because of her gender and neither are you.”

More I could not say, for the pain was causing my voice to crack and tears to sting in my eyes. Oh, if only he could see me… But I could not permit myself to dwell on it, not with Adrian Wright on the loose, his next action entirely unpredictable.

Together, Holmes and I disembarked from the hansom in front of Clairmont House, treating each other with all the courtesy of strangers -- polite and uncomfortable in an interaction which, for the most part, had always been easy.

Until this day, I remember the mild breeze that drifted through my hair as I walked and the sea of fallen leaves – red, yellow and brown – that lay scattered at my feet. I remember Holmes’s hesitant footsteps, him following me somehow, the unsteady rhythm of his cane on the ground. An acute imprint of sensation, a secret harbinger of doom.

It was I who knocked on the door this time, who came face to face with Helen Wright after a wait that felt immeasurably long. But it was Holmes who addressed her.

“We must speak to your husband this instant. It is a matter of urgency.”

“He is gone,” she replied, her face twitching  into an artificial smile that refused to linger.

Holmes’s impatience manifested itself in a bristling of annoyance and short, sharp stab of his cane into the ground. But my attention was quickly drawn away from him and instead to all those nuances of grief I observed on Helen Wright’s face. The pale, unseeing eyes, the deathly white skin, wearing pinpricks of red. The cracked lips. The slight tremor of her hands.

I felt my throat constrict as though I was suffocating, my lungs, my very chest saturated with the hopelessness that clung to the walls.

“Can you tell us where he went?”

How odd, that I had nearly forgotten about Holmes. Almost as though I had ceased to exist for a short while, as though I had merely lived within Helen Wright’s eyes.

She did not answer his question immediately but showed every sign of working through a difficult conundrum. At long last her chin trembled and her body shifted into motion, swayed to one side just long enough to reveal to us the whole ghastly picture. There, dangling from the topmost banister of the staircase was the strung up body of Adrian Wright.

I have never considered myself to be of squeamish nature, and copious experiences with bloodshed and injuries have certainly served to toughen me up further, but on this occasion I felt my stomach plummet and roil. And still Helen Wright remained rooted to the spot, her eyes filled with the same frightening emptiness.

I felt rather than saw Holmes slip past me with all the feline grace he sometimes possessed, striding towards the body which he examined with quiet curiosity. His slender fingers slid into trousers pockets and fondled shoe laces before he climbed higher on the staircase to assess face and neck of the deceased. And somehow the normalcy with which he treated the situation helped to ground me, reassured me that we had witnessed great tragedies before and found comfort within each other. Warmth returned slowly to my body as I drew in one long breath after another. My brain reclaimed its function and allowed me the conclusion that Helen Wright must have suffered a shock after finding her husband.

“Let us move to your sitting room,” I suggested, placing a hand upon her arm. “It won’t do you good to stand here.” It would do her no good either, I decided, to witness Holmes’s pragmatic approach to death.

Gently, I cajoled her into motion, an arm wrapped around her shoulder to steady her. She was lithe and fragile under my touch and every step uncertain, although I realised within moments that it was her leading me rather than vice versa.

The sitting room was as bare as the rest of the house I had seen but there was a snifter of spirit at least from which I poured a generous glass after having ensured that Mrs Wright was safely seated on the sofa. I did not speak much, just saw to her drinking the alcohol which brought some colour to her cheeks and remained kneeling at her feet until some clarity returned to her eyes.

“Dr. Watson. Please hear me out. There is something you must do before the police arrive.” Her plea evoked a fresh wave of discomfort in the pit of my stomach, but I nodded my assent and waited. “Upstairs in our bedroom in the topmost drawer of the cabinet closest to the window you’ll find a file. Take it with you or destroy it, it is all the same to me.”

Puzzled, I glanced from her trembling, parted lips to her hands which now lay furled with conviction in her lap.

“When did you find your husband, Mrs. Wright?” I inquired carefully.

Her mouth curled into another sad smile, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling, damp and deeply affected. “You don’t understand, Dr. Watson. I helped him. I gave him the final, freeing push.”

A shiver made its way down my spine upon hearing her confession, yet I schooled my face to retain its sympathetic expression.

“It has all been going on for too long, Dr. Watson. And Adrian was so deeply unhappy. I tried to love him as a wife should, I truly did, but whenever he would leave the house, I found myself wondering… He was so often distracted, he even lost his business… And when all these scandals came to light well I…I feared it was only a matter of time before my husband would be dragged before court and publicly shamed.”

“But that didn’t happen.”

I caught myself gazing at her hands time and time again, failing to understand how they could lie there so still and calm.

“No, instead Adrian…he…” She emitted a gasp of agony, a furtive, terrible little sound that seemed to reverberate around us long after it had passed. I watched her swallow down the rest of the emotion. I watched her shift and pluck at her dress. “I must hardly inform you what more he was capable of.”

“How long have you known?” I asked carefully.

“Oh, not long,” she chuckled, brittle like a broken bell. Teetering on the brink of madness. “Not long enough and yet…and yet…” The shadows lengthened across her face until suddenly an eerie calm overcame her once more. “I believe he wanted to be caught, Dr. Watson. He wanted it to end. Mr. Ainsworth came here one day maybe two weeks ago. He was full of energy, determined. Very kind to me. I heard them talking, then shouting in the office, but I thought it was none of my business. No, that isn’t entirely the truth. I feared to hear more about my husband’s…endeavours… it was rather cowardly of me. But I felt then that something was amiss, for he hadn’t been much in contact with his old friends since the debacle at our wedding.”

What strange creatures we were. Applying neat little words like “scandal” and “debacle” to experiences full of heartbreak and suffering. As though minimising them in language would minimise them in intensity also.

“So I began to make my own investigations. It was quite simple, really, laughably simple. Adrian left the house more and more. He never suspected a thing. I was repulsed by what I found…repulsed because I, too, felt a deep sense of satisfaction, of justice at his actions. In my anger, I thought that these men deserved their fate. For ruining our love, for destroying our peace. I do not know why they did it… but I know now that they did not have an inkling of the life they condemned us to. They imprisoned both of us.” She was starting to shake, her hands balled into fists. “Love does not just die, Dr. Watson. Not if it was genuine. And so we were stuck together in a never-ending tapestry of memories. There is nothing worse than dashed hope, than the vanishing of your plans for the future. There _was_ no future and no past either. Everything had become murky and muddled. And I could not love him, no matter how much I wanted to. But he loved me, and he suffered for it. And so we remained together in our agony, unable to live together and unable to part, for the law is what it is and neither one of us wished to disgrace the other.”

Outside the room, I could hear Holmes pacing with determination. Assembling clues, I supposed.

“So I did not stop him. But then matters went out of hand. I cannot tell you what transpired, though perhaps you know more than me. But Adrian changed, he grew more agitated and restless. Went out at odd hours of the morning and night. And then your note arrived, informing us of Mr. Ainsworth’s demise and I feared… Well, it was the truth, I know that now. Adrian was responsible for his death. This morning he returned from yet another venture, half crazed, muttering to himself. He did not resist when I confronted him with what I knew, told me that his plans had been compromised but that he could still find justice. He would not listen at first when I begged him to stop. Not until I told him that no deeds would fix what was broken between us, that we were condemned to an unhappy life. Then he collapsed before me, begged me to love him, to reconsider. And when I told him that I could not, he suddenly became very calm. He told me that there was no sense in prolonging our suffering. That it would be minutes, hours perhaps until Mr. Holmes would come to arrest him. He believed that since he had created his own noose – I do not know what he meant by that – he might as well hang. And he pleaded with me to set him free.” Her eyes grew heavy with the weight of her tears that dropped at last down her pale cheeks, streaking her skin with salt. “And I could not deny him again, Dr. Watson. He was so terribly unhappy, so lost. How could I refuse him that final kindness when I had failed him so desperately before?”

My hands closed around hers as though they could contain her pain somehow, but I cannot say whose were shaking more, hers or mine. There was no sense to this, to any of this. A never-ending cycle of guilt and suffering born from the seeds of ignorance and hatred. No triumph, no relief for either party.

“You must go now, Dr. Watson. Take the file and destroy it. What transpired here concerns no-one but us.”

Mrs. Wright was quietly determined even in her heart-break, and as she moved her hands on top of my own, I felt as though our roles were at once reversed. She, the caretaker, and I the poor soul in shock. Still, my bruised knuckles stung from her touch.

I cannot remember how I found the strength to leave her side, how I crossed the room on feeble legs. But I must have done, for it was at the door that I paused to look at her one last time. My impression of her hadn’t altered greatly. Helen Wright had been and still was a woman who had lost everything, including herself along the way. And now she remained behind in a crater of destruction, drifting through life – for she had stopped living long ago – with the knowledge of what she had done.

As I made my way up to her bedroom, the emptiness of the house pervaded my very being and I was barely conscious of anything else. There was a gaping, aching hole in my chest, a faint buzzing in my ears. Still, I walked and searched and acquired like a good soldier who’d been sent on a mission. I could not fail. I could not see. I could not feel.

“Watson? Watson.” A hand came to rest lightly on my arm and after a while I recognised the soft, careful touch to be that of my friend. “It is time we left. The case is quite finished.” I felt his fingers through the fabric of my coat, sliding down to my elbow, steadying me. “I have seen to Mr. Wright and you have seen to his wife. Now the inspectors can handle the matter.”

He was pragmatic in his approach but once again I found that I could digest the snippets of information he was offering me. I could hear him.

He uttered a few more words to the men that must have been around us, then guided me back out into the blinding light of the setting sun that was casting all the sky around us in orange hues. The file I had extracted rested heavily against my chest, wedged between my heart and the cold steel of the revolver.

I fell asleep on our ride home to Baker Street, into a cool sea of nothingness, my head against his shoulder, his heartbeat and the clatter of hooves a soothing melody to my unsettled mind. And I awoke to his lips upon my brow, to a few whispered words. His lean, wiry arm a surprisingly strong support, as he helped me out of the hansom and into the safety of 221B.

 

* * *  
  


My memory of the days that followed is foggy, so lost was I to this state of utter paralysis. I spoke little and ate even less and spent my hours staring blindly out of the window or fast asleep. Holmes rarely left my side.

I know now that he gave very specific instructions to Mrs Hudson not to disturb us and to send away any visitors, including clients and inspectors from the Yard. Cocooned in privacy, he read to me from the classics or told me about the remarkable art of bee-keeping. He was loyal and true, never straying far.

When I awoke at night, I would find him tucked away behind me, his arm securely wrapped around my middle, as though he could not bear the thought of releasing me. I remember smiling, finally smiling, as the warmth of his breath washed up against my neck.

Then one night he was gone. I realised so immediately and painfully as one might a missing limb. I do not know how many days had passed since our case had ended, but my mind was acute and sharp once more, no longer frozen or clouded in mist.

Without him in my bed, I was shivering and lonely, glancing around a dark and empty space. Only the streetlamps twinkled reassuringly from beyond my window.

I tried coaxing myself back to sleep but found that I could not, that I did not want to without him, not when I had finally discovered the sweetness of lying in his embrace. So with little regard to propriety or my own dignity, I slipped out of the bed and wrapped my robe around me. I hastened to the door and paused only when the faint sound of his violin drifted to me from below. He had chosen a sweet yet mournful tune, something of his own creation, I believed. I did not wish to disturb him, for it must have been a peculiar mood to urge him to play something like this, but my need for him was too great to resist.

Slowly and quietly, I advanced down our stairs until only the sitting room door was separating us. It was slightly ajar and through the crack, I watched as my friend swayed back and forth on the floor, moved by the spirit of his music, the hem of his mouse-coloured robe swinging gently across our carpet. His nimble fingers were caressing the strings at the neck of the violin while his other arm swooped up and down in waves, ever driving on the tune.

I was by his side within five strides, my front pressed to his back. My face found a comfortable spot between his shoulder blades and as I breathed him in, he gave a shuddering sigh. The music came to a sudden pause.

“Don’t stop on my account, Sherlock,” I muttered into the dark. “Please continue.”

And so he did, finishing the piece he had started and another one and another one after that. Then, slowly, I felt him lowering his instrument. I heard myself grumble as he turned, moving his body out of reach for a brief moment before he came to stand facing me, my forehead now pressed to his chest.

“I did not mean to wake you, my dear fellow.”

The stiffness I could feel in his body pervaded his voice also and in my puzzlement I blinked to look at him. He was regarding me with a peculiar intensity that bade all words to die on my tongue. And so we stood silent and still.

“I have been a fool, my dear. No, please, do not speak. I must apologise for my ignorance which must have wounded you gravely. I shall refuse to pride myself on my intelligence any longer when I have proven myself so dismally narrow-minded. It was selfish of me, selfish and unjust to fail to understand, to wish you had loved me and me alone. But, you see, I have never loved, not quite so deeply anyhow, without all the rashness of a youth but with a steady, quiet certainty that my heart must rest with you and you alone. I am rather clumsy, John, rather inapt at this whole business, terribly set in my ways and quite frankly petrified of losing you. This horrific case has made me realise that. But if you’ll still have me?” 

“Have you?” I repeated dumb-struck and then I kissed him. I kissed Sherlock Holmes in the darkness of our sitting room until he kissed me back. I weaved my fingers through his mussed hair and watched on as light slowly streaked across his face. The first rays of a new dawn.


	10. Chapter 10

Epilogue:

 

Several more days passed before I could claim with certainty to have fully recovered, and with the fading of the bruises on my knuckles and the gently-growing sense of peace in my breast came the dreadful realisation that I was soon to return to work and that Holmes would have to find himself a new case. Neither seemed quite satisfying or indeed plausible, however, on this particular day as Holmes reclined cocooned in my arms on the sofa.

While I found myself pondering the challenges of facing the particular peculiarities of what constituted ordinary life for us, Holmes appeared happily engaged with the book he was reading. Once or twice he had paused to emit a derogatory hum or quietly amused chuckle, had even shared the odd passage with me; but he never gave so much as an indication that the ending to our most recent case had left him affected. It worried me and perhaps needlessly so, but I feared that he might contain himself for my benefit, and I wished only to start our new arrangement on equal footing.

I adjusted my arms around his middle and buried my face in his neck, savouring both the scent of him and the tensing and easing of his abdomen as he breathed. In the flat below, Mrs Hudson was pottering around quite happily -- cooking, no doubt, if the clattering of pots and pans was any indication.

“You haven’t indulged me yet, my dear,” I murmured softly, and shamelessly delighted in the effect my words -- or perhaps the insinuation contained within -- had on him. Holmes, I had discovered, was one to blush easily or at least more noticeably so than most, thanks to the pallor of his skin. But to spare him further embarrassment of what had only been a light-hearted jest, I swiftly added, “I am referring to the case, of course. As always, you seemed to know the culprit long before me.”

“Well, I must admit that for all its twists and turns this was a rather simple case, my boy.” He abandoned his book and placed his hands atop my own, as though looking to shield me nonetheless from the experience that had left me so dreadfully shaken.

“I am the worse for that then,” I remarked laughing, my heart trilling in my breast when he joined. “Will you truly leave me in the dark?”

“Of course not. But I have a feeling, we are due to be disturbed any moment. And a story quite loses its charm when repeated twice in quick succession.”

“A visitor?” I repeated dumbfounded, for I already had grown quite selfishly accustomed to his company and his alone, and the notion of an outsider entering our sanctuary vexed me greatly.

“I rather fear so, Watson. Though it must be said that Mrs Hudson has done an admirable job so far in shielding us from intrusion. But it is Friday…”

A wistful note clung to his tone, and I found myself following it into the silence into which it disappeared. Sense I could not make of it, however. Or rather couldn’t make of it until a knock resounded downstairs and I perceived without doubt the voice of Hugo Laghari from below. What had Holmes done to me, I wondered, what spell had he cast upon me that I had forgotten so entirely about our exotic client?

Before long, Mrs Hudson was calling on our doorstep with a dismayed expression on her face that gave way to relief when Holmes, who had risen to his feet, instructed her to let the man in. When Laghari stepped into our room it was without the usual flourish that typically accompanied his gestures. He greeted us both curtly, before sinking purposefully into Holmes’s chair with the air of a man who had just suffered a nervous breakdown.

“Mr. Holmes,” he began slowly after the door had been shut behind him, “I must confess that you have disappointed me. I send you out to protect one of my own yet somehow he winds up dead. And when I call upon your door you turn me away. Must I fret over the fate of the young shoe maker who, I believe, you were about to visit next when last I saw you?”

A wry smile played around the lips of my friend who was taking to our client’s outrage with a great sense of humour. “You may rest assured, Mr. Laghari, that O’Connell is quite safe. As for Mr. Wright…well, it might surprise you to hear that his death was the best outcome for all involved.”

“Surprise would be too mild a word, Mr. Holmes. Outrage far more accurate.” I watched him sit up straighter in his chair -- tempted, I thought, to lunge at Holmes for the careless suggestion he had uttered.

My companion, however, calmly collected his pipe from the mantelpiece, lit it and sank down onto the sofa by my side once more. I thought to see in his eyes a kind of struggle. Should he disclose the details swiftly and relieve poor Laghari who was so apparently affected? Or should he now hold back and prolong his agony as Laghari had done at the beginning of the case? In the end, however, his kind heart won out.

“I’d rather you did not upset yourself so terribly on my behalf, Mr. Laghari. I can assure you that you will soon come to grasp my meaning.”

Our client’s own face now contorted as though he was tempted to argue, but eventually he relented.

 “Oh very well, Mr. Holmes. You have the upper hand, and I am at your mercy. Now will you please give me the answers I seek?”

Holmes steepled his fingers above his abdomen, assumed an almost pensive position and then began. “Adrian Wright was the blackmailer, not the victim. He sought revenge on the men who had wronged him, an endeavour that swiftly got out of hand when factors emerged that he hadn’t accounted for, driving him into deeper states of agitation.”

Hugo Laghari had blanched rather pitifully at Holmes’s dramatic reveal, and so I rose on still weakened legs to pour him a drink which he gratefully accepted.

“I do not enjoy disclosing the motive before the facts, but Watson here tells me that it makes the narrative simpler to follow, so I must take his word for it, for he is the author and I a mere amateur.”

I swatted his knee which was closest to me and gave him a look that bade him to pause.

“There were five men in total. Wright, Ainsworth, your shoe maker O’Connell, a doctor called Bainbridge and a prison ward called Archer. All five had been in the military together and been privy to each other’s most intimate secrets. But when they’d returned to England and Wright had found happiness with his wife, they hadn’t taken kindly to it. Angered perhaps, they had chosen his wedding celebrations to tell Mrs Wright of her husband’s tendencies, which had served to erode their marriage entirely. Heartbroken and intent on revenge, Wright had lost his business, sinking further into ruin. Watson told me that Mrs Wright had said to him that in the end Wright had believed he had created his own noose. I believe he meant you, Mr. Laghari, for you had witnessed his grief and despair. He could have told you anything, yet he chose to weave this web of lies that prompted my involvement and, in the end, his own death. He knew that the game was quite over.”

A rather sombre mood had befallen our sitting room that now even the bright rays of sunshine could not hope to illuminate. We remained in silence, Holmes suckling at his pipe with quiet satisfaction, while I watched Laghari who appeared deeply affected. There was little sound to be heard, save for the noise of the street outside. Even Mrs Hudson downstairs seemed to have gone quite still.

“It is a pity…” spoke Laghari at long last, though his utterance was more akin to a sigh or a deep exhalation than speech. An unspoken sentiment clung to his words also. _If I had known sooner_ or _If only I’d noticed_ , perhaps. Then he downed his glass and straightened himself, conjuring out of nowhere a playful smile. “You are bursting to tell us how you solved it, Mr. Holmes. Rather shameless, might I add. But please do indulge us. I’d hate to have put you in a foul mood that the poor doctor here would have to suffer. I wouldn’t wish to spoil your obvious contentment.”

I nearly laughed then, so refreshing did I find that glimpse of the old, devilish Laghari who had – as I know now – noticed at first sight what had taken Holmes and I more than a decade to express. Holmes was, of course, aware of the same and therefore determined to lead the conversation back to safer shores.

“The facts are these,” he began. “Watson and I called upon Wright first as he had confessed his desperate situation to you. We entered a house that was spectacularly bland and empty; Mr. Wright was indeed in the state you had described him to be, and our visit appeared to upset him further. Still, he was surprisingly forthcoming, outlining not only the grounds of the blackmail and the sum he was expected to pay but also the culprit. One Horace Ainsworth with whom he had been in the military.” Here, Holmes paused to look at me. “I found it strange that he’d demonstrate such willing cooperation, as all previous victims of blackmail we’d engaged with had demonstrated great reluctance in giving away the identity of their tormentor, if indeed they knew them at all. My suspicion was roused. But his explanations were sound and I could not fault him, and so I directed my attention to the office in which he sat. The fireplace had been lit recently and official documents burned. Unfortunately, we’d just been too late for me to make out any more than the smouldering remainders of waxen seals. Secondly, Wright’s hands were quivering and stained by ink. He was obviously in great distress, but why? Had he received another note from the blackmailer and hurriedly burned it? And what about the ink? You might remember, Watson, that he was holding a pen as we entered, a pen which he had failed to uncap. His wife told us that he had only recently returned from an outing, perhaps the ink had been spilled then?”

I nodded, my brain slowly unravelling the threads it hadn’t been able to unfurl before. It was easier now to visualise what Holmes had seen.

“The most conclusive information, however, were Adrian Wright’s shoes. Shoes of the same make and hue as I had witnessed many times at the Elysium. The red thread that I mentioned to you, Watson. You will see now, Mr. Laghari, why I sought you out once more to enquire about the young shoe maker. But I’m getting ahead of myself. For first we paid the supposed blackmailer himself a visit. To our surprise, we encountered Scotland Yard at the address Mr. Wright had given us. You see, Mr. Laghari, Horace Ainsworth had been found dead by his maid just that morning. Of course, to assume that Mr. Wright’s morning outing had been with Mr. Ainsworth was foolish conjecture, but I could not deny that this was a curious development. Watson here examined the deceased and confirmed what officials from the Yard had found as well. There were no injuries. For all intents and purposes it seemed that Horace Ainsworth had died of natural causes. The effect of a heart condition which the maid told us he had been diagnosed with rather recently. No money in the world would have saved him from his fate. So what would he stand to gain from the blackmail?”

I could see by the frown on Laghari’s face that he was just as puzzled as we had been.

“Now I must give credit where it’s due and say that without Watson’s excellent find the case may not have advanced as swiftly as it did.”

“Are you outgrowing the master?” Laghari enquired with an amused smile and a provocative raise of the eyebrow directed at my friend.

“Hardly,” I answered modestly. Though perhaps in deviousness I rather matched him now.

“As I was saying,” Holmes interrupted impatiently, keen to continue talking, “Watson discovered a collection of articles which showed that Ainsworth had been keeping an eye on several men. Of course, initially only Mr. Wright’s name stood out to us, but as we attended Ainsworth’s funeral it became clear that several more men were involved. The only man not featured in any of the articles, however, was your shoe maker O’Connell.”

“Isn’t that rather curious, Holmes?” I asked suddenly.

“I should think not. Of course, here we enter the realm of assumptions once more, but you said to me that O’Connell had referred to Ainsworth by his Christian name in front of you. You even remarked how fondly he seemed to speak of him. Surely then they must have remained close even after the war, perhaps even visiting each other frequently which would have made such surveillance redundant.”

“Quite,” I conceded and patted his thigh again, for he had talked himself into a frenzy, was red-cheeked and winded with glistening, excited eyes, as though he was reliving the case anew.

“Following the path we had been set upon by Mr. Wright, I had to believe that these men were victims of blackmail too. And indeed they were, but only if the culprit was Wright and not Ainsworth. I had become particularly interested in a ring Ainsworth had worn, the one you, Mr. Laghari, dismissed as being too gaudy to belong to your establishment. With a useful hint from a government agent, I learned that the ring possessed a secret compartment which contained a poison which could easily emulate a heart attack, and that just before his death Mr. Ainsworth had drafted a new will. It was obvious then to defer that Ainsworth, knowing that he would die in near future, had taken his own life to protect his comrades in arms. It goes without saying that this strengthened my belief that Wright had been the villain all along and that the ink stains we had seen on his hands that day had been foolish attempts at altering the will he must have just been confronted with. Nonetheless, I needed to know with certainty and I was still missing the motive. So Watson and I made it a point to visit the remaining members of the group until we discovered what I have already relayed to you. By the time we arrived at Clairmont House, Wright – driven into a corner by his own actions and outsmarted to the last – had already taken his own life.”

 I was grateful that he did not mention Helen Wright’s involvement, for the matter was a rather tender one still. I felt that what I had witnessed and what I had been told in the privacy of her sitting room could not exist in any other space. Much like Helen Wright herself, it was too delicate, too fragile to survive scrutiny or careless discussion.

Mr. Laghari remained reclining in Holmes’s chair, a contemplative look in his brown eyes, as though perhaps he was slowly releasing the ghost of Wright’s memory, the image he’d had of the man.

“It was rather a simple case then, wasn’t it?” he asked eventually, repeating Holmes’s words from not so long ago. And my poor friend shouldered them with as much dignity as he could muster, slighted nonetheless by the amused twitch of Laghari’s lips. “And it strikes me that you may have struggled to solve it without the help of your government agent and the good doctor by your side.”

It was a terribly tempting piece of bait that Holmes could neither ignore nor accept. For to agree would have upset his pride and to deny would be to insult his friends.

“Now really, Mr. Laghari,” I therefore scolded our client gently, knowing that the merriment in my eyes would not escape him.

“All I am trying to say, Mr. Holmes,” replied he in return while rising elegantly to his feet, “is that you better treasure what you have.” Here he stopped short before us and squeezed our hands with his own, slender ones. “And long may it last.” I hoped that would be the end of it, as he moved gradually towards the door, but barely had I begun to register the heat that had crept up my neck, when Laghari added, “Oh and Mr. Holmes? You would look delicious in a purple corset. Some stockings perhaps? I hate to admit it, but you do have quite the figure for it. And we both know how well the doctor would take to it.”

My embarrassed gaze rushed to Holmes whose face was twisting and contorting, his colour growing red and redder still, yet no words emerged. It was as if he was far more flummoxed by Laghari’s cheek than any case or riddle presented to him. So it was left to me to usher our client swiftly from our rooms, lest he utter another risky sentiment. But as I watched him glide down our stairs, regal as the Queen herself, I felt that we hadn’t seen the last of him.

When I returned to our sitting room, my poor Holmes was trying to still his restless fingers by plucking at the strings of his beloved violin. The instrument uttered a few plaintive cries then fell silent again when he lowered it absentmindedly to the floor.

“There is one thing you haven’t yet told me,” I said, capturing his hands now in my own. “And that’s how you knew that the rupture happened after and not during the war.”

I would no longer acknowledge Hugo Laghari or his words and hoped this would soothe Holmes’s spirits. Still, he seemed to struggle before at last he managed to speak.

“A simple chain of reasoning. All the men we spoke to brushed over the war as though it held no true relevance in their lives. Horace Ainsworth observed his friends after the war, originating at Wright’s wedding which is the first article of importance if you view them in chronological order. He witnessed Bainbridge’s promotion and the loss of Wright’s business, always lying in wait for the inevitable to happen. He surveyed them for nearly a decade until finally the first letter arrived. A guilty conscience is indeed a heavy burden to bear.”

I nodded my head in understanding and traced his fingers, feeling his joints, taking stock of each splash of acid on his skin. “I think kinder of him and of the young shoe maker. Perhaps because their sins were better concealed. It is a shame they were involved…”

Further, I could not go in fear of rousing my own anger anew.

“Ainsworth did what he thought most noble in the end. As for O’Connell? I fear he will spend the rest of his young life regretting that which can no longer be undone.”

A grave silence settled over us both, made bearable only by the comforting touch of skin against skin. I was about to propose we resume our previous position on the sofa, when a knock on the door downstairs cut any such suggestion short.

“I believe that will be Inspector Lestrade now,” announced Holmes, brushing his lips over my knuckles before he shifted back into his chair so that an appropriate distance was created between us. “He and Laghari share a certain tenacity in the finding of answers, you will see.”

And indeed, a few minutes later the small inspector scurried into our rooms, clutching his bowler hat to his chest. His breaths were heaving in a state of agitation and his black eyes drifted restlessly from Holmes to myself.

“You have been treating me rather poorly indeed, Mr. Holmes!” he proclaimed eventually, raising an accusing finger at my friend. “Asking me to fetch a will as though I was a common messenger. Avoiding me when the deed was done. But I will have you know that I am not stupid. I knew from the moment I saw you at that diplomat’s house that something was afoot.” Here, he tapped the side of his nose and sank with a satisfied smile down on the sofa next to me. “So I formed my own deductions which, with the help of that will proved to me that it was really rather simple. It was a case of blackmail, was it not? Oh, you really mustn’t look so shocked. It was you who left me alone with all the evidence. Well, this’ll teach you to underestimate me.”

I swallowed against the terror that was thrumming its beat in my chest and forced myself to keep my eyes trained on the inspector. If I glanced at Holmes now what further deductions would the man be capable of?

“I must say, I feel terrible for the poor maid.” A frown broke slowly across my forehead but fear continued to hold me arrested. “She must have loved Ainsworth dearly to be in such complete mourning. Yet in the end, she was left with nothing.”

“I don’t believe I am following,” I muttered carelessly and in a flash felt Holmes’s eyes upon me. I dared to glance at him then and noticed at once how calm and even amused  he looked. Still, there was a tremor to his hands that informed me his nerves had been taut until recently.

“Now now, Dr. Watson. You mustn’t play me for a fool any longer. I know that Ainsworth had an affair with his maid which would have caused a scandal in his own circles had it come to light. Unfortunately for him, three former comrades from the military – O’Connell, Bainbridge and Archer, the names are all there in the will – had uncovered his secret and were blackmailing him. To spare himself the shame and perhaps if we think of him favourably, to protect his maid’s honour, he took his own life knowing that he hadn’t much longer to live and paid the men off so they would keep their silence.”

“Bravo, Lestrade!” Holmes cried out and jumped to his feet to clutch the inspector’s hands by means of congratulation. “You have solved it expertly. I should never have doubted you.”

“Indeed not,” muttered the poor man who looked flushed and exceedingly pleased with himself. I, however, refrained from speaking, lest my tongue endanger this shameful charade.

“I admit that the suicide was a touch inspired, but when I had the body examined once more there were indeed traces of poison. So you see, Mr. Holmes, that detection is not always a rigidly logical profession.”

“Indeed not, Lestrade, indeed not,” Holmes acquiesced while hoisting the man from our sofa once more and ushering him rather rudely towards the door.

“You must not take it to heart, Mr. Holmes.” It was obvious that Lestrade was mistaking Holmes’s impatience for poor sportsmanship. “We live and we learn. I doubt you could have done much more for him.” With great determination he wrung his arm from Holmes’s grasp and built himself up to his full height. “I thought about pursuing it further, you know? He was a rather prominent diplomat, after all. But my inquiries must have roused attention in the wrong circles for next thing I knew an unsigned letter from the government reached me – I have checked the seal, it is quite real – thanking me for my services but advising me to leave further matters in their hands. So I have returned the will to the accountant and let the whole thing rest. I suspect they know what they’re doing up there.” He puffed his chest out importantly and firmly placed the bowler hat back on the crown of his head. “Good day, gentlemen.”

The front door had barely fallen shut behind him when Holmes burst into raucous laughter which I was hesitant to join in. It seemed to me that we had only just escaped catastrophe and that we would, indeed, do better not to underestimate the inspector’s sharp mind and zest for the truth.

“I believe a thank you note to your brother is in order, Holmes. It seems he’s managed to avert something that could have been quite disastrous.”

My friend’s chuckles only gradually died down and when he’d stopped, his eyes were damp and his cheeks splashed with colour.

“Oh my poor Watson,” he spoke with the husky voice of a man who’d spent rather too much of himself. “You should have seen your face.” He chuckled anew, then lowered himself to the sofa and took my head in his hands. “I fear this whole business has left you terribly shaken, and I must confess that I do not feel adequately equipped to accept another case yet.”

I had made to look away in embarrassment as though he was mocking me but found his eyes serious and sad instead. The embers of mirth hadn’t entirely died down, but he was rational and gentle enough to acknowledge my plight. Perhaps because he was so familiar with his own demons.

“I shall write to Mycroft at once, you may rest assured, but when I do so I want to also give him an answer to a proposition he has made.”

“And what proposition would that be?” I inquired, curious despite the fatigue that had washed over me. I pressed my face into Holmes’s warm palms and inhaled and waited for his response.

“A while ago he had acquired a delightful little cottage in the Sussex Downs and he was wondering if we would like to make use of it for a week or two.” The effect of his words must have been instantly recognisable on my face, for he chuckled warmly and pressed a tender kiss to my forehead. “Then it is quite agreed,” he murmured and I thought to feel the curve of his smile against my skin.

A week in the countryside, I quietly reflected to myself, far away from the crowd and the noise. To be with Holmes and Holmes alone, devoid of human suffering. To walk, to rest, to breathe. Sleeping and waking in his embrace. Safe as far as safety was granted to men like us. Well, what sweeter thing could there be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- to all of you who have been reading and commenting, leaving kudos and likes or reblogging on tumblr: Thank you!  
> \- Hugo and Lestrade's threads needed wrapping up. I do feel for the poor inspector but thank Colin Jeavons' excellent  
> performance that helped me visualise this scene  
> \- Holmes and Laghari are in fact quite similar. Here's another little parallel: Holmes using Lestrade as a messenger,yet not  
> liking it when Laghari does the same to him


End file.
